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J. S. OGILYIE AND COyVlPANY’S 



Ey LHY GUREY, Autlior of “k EoReiian Tragedy/' 

ETC,, ETC. 


NEW YORK: 

J. S. Ogilvie & Company, 
57 Rose Street. 



Entered at New York Post-office as second-class matter. 



WHY ARE 

THE MAOAIilE FilGBA'S CORSETS 



A MAItVKIu OF eOMFmiT AAO TXSUnAT^VFi 

Try and you will Find 

Wifi V tlioy need no 1>reakiilg' in, l>ut feel easy at. once. 

W IE V they are liked by Ladies of fuU figure. 

Wiffi V they do not break down over llie bips, and 
'IVfifi¥ t!ie celebrated French curved band preveiUs any 
Avrinkling or stretching at the sides. 

WIE¥ di •essmakers delight in fitting dresses over them. 

WII V merchants say they give better satisfaction than any othersi. 
WHY they lak V, ]>ains to recommend them. 

Ttieir popularity has induced many imitations, which are frauds, hig’h at 
any pri<*e. lJuy only the i!?enuine, stanfpetl Miulaiut? Mora’s. Sold by ail 
leading Dealers with tiiis 

CUARAtITEE : 

that if not perfectly satisfactory unon trial the money will be refunded. 

L. K.RAUS &. CO., Manufacturers, Birmingham, Conn. 


Drops of Blood 

— BY — 


LILY CURRY. 


Author of “A Bohemian Tragedy, Etc,, Etc, 


Copyright, 1887, by J. S. Ogllvie & Company, 


FIRESIBE SEBIES, No. 22. AEBIL, 1887. 

Issued Monthlj: (Extra) Subscription, $3 per year. 

Entered at New York Post-office as second-class matter. 


J. 


S. OGILVIE & COMPANY, 



i t •' 


57. Rose St., New York; 79 Wabash Ave., Chicago. 





-^1 IIW SHIES 



We have just issued the following popular novels in 

thenew pip^gjpE SERIES, 


the cover of which is printed in colors and are very 
attractive ; 


No. 1. The Mohawks, 450 pages, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 
No. 2. Lady Val worth's Diamonds, 190 pages, by 
The Duchess. 

No. 3. A House Party, 190 pages, by Ouida. 

No. 4. At Bay, 192 pages, by Mrs, Alexander. 

No. 5. Adventures of an Old Maid, 190 pages, by 
Belle C. Greene. 

No. 6. Vice-Yersa, 160 pages, by F. Anstey. 

No. 7, In Prison and Out, 160 pages, by Hesba Stretton. 
No. 8. A Broken Heart, 180 pages, by author of 
Dora Thorne. 

No. 9. A False Y ow, 180 pages, by author of Dora Thorne 
No. 10. Nancy Hartshorn at Chautauqua, 224 pages, by 
Nancy Hartshorn. 

No. 11. Beaton’s Bargain, 160 pages, by Mrs. Alexander. 
No. 12. Mrs. Hopkins on Her Travels, by Mrs. Hopkins. 
No. 13. The Guilty Kiver, by Wilkie Collins. 

No. 14. By Woman’s Wit, by Mrs. Alexander, 

No. 15. She, by H. Rider Haggard. 

No. 16. The Witch’s Head, by H. Rider Haggard. 

No. 17. King Solomon’s Mines, by H. Rider Haggard. 
No. 18. Jess, by H. Rider Haggard. 

No. 19. The Merry Men, by Robert Louis Stevenson. 

No. 20. Miss Jones’ Quilting, by Josiah Allen’s Wife. 
No. 21. Secrets of Success, by J. W. Donovan. 

No. 22. Drops of Blood, by Lily Curry. 

No. 23. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

The above books are bound uniform with this volume, 
and will be sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price by 

J. S. OGILVIE & CO„ Publishers, 

67 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


The Curtain of Death, 
Uncommonly Common, 
One Woman’s Work, - 
Peace Ellithorpe, - 
Out of the World, 

A Talkative Man, - 
‘‘Very Interesting,” - 
On the Old Red Roof, 
Felix Gray, 

The Colonel’s Widow, 
Lilith ! - 

The “Cherry-Picker,” 
The “ Wine-Bottle,” 
The Last Act, - 


5 

31 

55 

70 

81 

92 

100 

111 

125 

132 

141 

156 

170 

181 



THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


I. 

The red flag* which all day long* had floated from 
the flag-staff of the Riccadonna restaurant, now 
drooped like a scarlet lily. The blaze of summer 
sunlight was quenched; the afterglow of violet and 
rose presaged fair weather, and a young wind was 
whispering sleepily through the town, sweet secrets 
of the sea so near and yet unseen. The ailantus 
tree before the Riccadonna had shaken off enough 
white bloom to make one think that snow-flakes flne 
and fragrant lay on the stones beneath. 

A young man, crossing the street diagonally 
from a tall building where he had lately taken an 
apartment, inspected the restaurant with critical 
eye. He had dined there once and was yet uncer- 
tain whether or not he had been pleased. 

Mr. Clayton Berners was an oldish man intellectu- 
ally considered ; he had many lines in his face. Yet 
in reality he was not more than flve and thirty, and 
had a trim, sender flgure. His deep blue eyes had the 
mild honesty of youth in them and his dark hair was 
yet unbristled with gray. 

He walked deliberately, as though he inflnitely 
enjoyed the early evening’^ calmness, ascended 
thoughtfully the brown-stone steps and entered the 


6 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


parlor of the Riccadonna, where the tables were 
already nearly all filled. 

But he saw no familiar face, and a strange feeling 
of loneliness crept over him. Was life — a bachelor 
life at least — worth living?’’ he asked himself, and 
fell into something like a gloomy frame of mind. 

Pardon,” said a voice behind him — a deep voice 
with a tropical tremolo of liquids and semi-vowels 
— a little mellow moreover as if from the heat and 
some stimulant. Pardon — these other seats — are 
they engaged?” And without waiting for Mr. 
Berner’s reply, the speaker took a step forward and 
sank rather heavily into a chair. It is so warm,” 
he said, apologetically. ‘‘Actually it is so warm!” 

Mr. Berners regarded him amiably. He was a man 
fast approaching middle-age, of large and elegant 
person and slightly careless as to attire. He was very 
bald — the smooth pinkness of his skull being sur- 
rounded b}^ a narrow ring of jet black hair. He had 
a heav}^ black beard and his eyes were so dark that 
pupil and iris seemed one. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Berners when he perceived that a 
reply was expected, “it has been ver^^ warm out of 
doors. In the house I have not felt it so oppressive.” 

“You have remained at home?” asked the new- 
comer, smiling sociably. 

“That is my custom.” 

“ Indeed ! You are not in business. I envy you. I 
do not know,” he continued, waving the waiter away 
impatiently, “actually I do not know when I have 
found it so exhausting. You are indeed fortunate to 
have remained idle at home !” 

Mr. Berners smiled wearily. 

“ I assure you I have not been idle. It has been a 
day of toil.” 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


7 


You are an artist?’’ 

‘‘Perhaps I may offer you my card/’ said the young- 
man. 

“ Delighted. Ah ! you are a teacher — of the voice. 
Most charming, I am sure. ‘Italian method!’ I, 
myself am an Italian. You would not have thought 
it, would you?” 

He fumbled in his pockets a little and at length 
brought out a crumpled bit of pasteboard on which 
one read, in the latest script, “ Signor Salvator 
Perrini.” 

“I knew you were not an American,” said Bern- 
ers. 

“May I ask how you knew?” he inquired with 
tipsy pomposity. He reached out as if to take Mr. 
Berners’ bottle of ordinaire. 

“I judged from something in your bearing,” said 
Berners more carelessly. “By the by, I cannot 
recommend that wine.” 

The Italian made haste to order a dry champagne, 
and insisted upon his companion joining him in dis- 
posing off it. 

The conversation turned presently, and — very 
naturally — to Mr. Berners’ profession. 

“I have a little girl,” said the Italian, “who sings 
like a bird, but who has had no instruction. I would 
like to have you teach her.” 

Mr. Berners cleared his throat. Accessions of this 
sort were always welcome. 

“ Is she young ?” he inquired. 

“She is not yet twenty.” 

“That is not too late,” said the young man, look- 
ing out into the street whence daylight was gradually 
fading. Already the great electric light outside the 
window began to flicker and flutter like a white dove 


8 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


beating* vainly with its wings the walls of a prison of 
glass. 

The Italian roused him with an invitation to re- 
turn home with him — to meet my little girl, my 
little lady.’’ 

After a moment’s hesitation Berners consented. 
The Italian was rather uncertain in his movements, 
and unattended, might meet with some mishap. It 
would be but a Christian act to escort him safely — 
and it might mean another clever pupil. 

^^Your daughter,” said Mr. Berners, as having 
settled the score and feed the waiter, they went out 
and down the stone steps, past the fluttering white 
light and the shamed gas-jets — ‘^your daughter 
might — ” 

^^My daughter?” interrupted the other with a mel- 
low laugh. O, not my daughter, you know.” 

I beg your pardon ; your ward.” 

But the Italian seemed not to hear, for the clatter 
of a passing cab.^ 

They crossed the street, passing from under the 
heavy perfume of the tree ; onward past an old stone 
church, and around into the central avenue of the city. 

The walk and the night-air assisted the signor to 
recover his equilibrium. They were conversing ra- 
tionally when they arrived at the entrance to a tall 
apartment house. The signor touched an electric 
bell, and led the way up stairs, halting on the third 
landing. 

A door suddenly opened, and Berners started at the 
glimpse he caught of light and luxury within, the 
breath of subtle perfume. Then swiftly out of all the 
soft splendor stood forth an especial radiance. A fair 
young girl, dressed all in white, with white flowers on 
her bosom, and the look of an angel in her face ! 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


9 


Darling she cried. How late you are 

Berners shrank back as if he had been struck. For 
a moment the place seemed to whirl. 

‘‘My God he said to himself. “This is horrible.’’ 

Then he felt himself swept, submerged with a wave 
of compassion for her pure face, her pure attire, her 
soul, that somehow must be pure — and ignorant. He 
had seen other white things that day. Curiously his 
thoughts went back to the white electric light, flutter- 
ing like a caged dove before the Riccadonna. 

The signor spoke good humoredly. 

“ I have a friend, my dear; Mr. Berners.” 

They followed her into the drawing-room. 

“ You have dined, I hope, Salome ?” 

‘ ‘ 0, yes ; some time since, though I waited for - 
you,” she answered musically. She had a voice with- 
out crack or flaw, smooth, pure, silver. She made a 
pretty hostess, besides. She brought fans and poured 
delicious iced drinks from a heavy silver pitcher. 
Berners gazed arpund him almost fearfully. The rich 
rugs into which one’s footsteps sank, the studded 
walls, the rare pictures and costly bric-a-brac; the 
dim hues and mystic tracery, the statuary, the tinted 
light filtering through rose hued globes, the bronzes, 
the portieres ! It was bewildering, in fine. 

As he continued to gaze, his attention Avas drawn 
to and fascinated by a splendid curtain of purest 
velvet dependent from burnished rings and rod at the 
farther end of the room. In hue it was tawny as a 
tiger’s hide, while across the sweeping, seductive 
surface a painted peacock, plumed for parade, stood 
framed in waving yet esthetic foliage. 

Berners regarded the picture with enchantment, 
and an incredible longing to approach and smooth 
the glorious stuff. 


10 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


Salome sat low on a hassock at the feet of Perrini, 
who, being- so well wined, had thrown himself back in 
his easy chair and dozed at intervals. He opened his 
eyes presently, with a good-humored smile. 

“My dear, Mr. Berners admires your portiere. Go 
over and examine it, Mr. Berners.” 

Berners obeyed, stroking the velvet with tender 
awe. Salome came also, with something of a child’s 
shyness. 

“It was not easy to do, ” she said. “It took me 
many days.” 

“ You !” exclaimed Berners. 

“Yes; I did it all.” 

“ I would not have imagined it,” he said awkwardly. 

She smiled wistfully as they returned to their seats. 

Perrini had roused again and sat upright, as if 
suddenly conscious of having violated some law of 
hospitality. He made Salome play a nocturne, and 
listened to the sweet alternate passages of major and 
minor music with a pleased air of proprietorship. 

Berners, equally attentive, inquired if she had 
studied long. 

“During the two years she was at school,” said 
Perrini. “Two years, was it not, love ?” 

“Two years,” she replied with a smile. Berners 
could never forget her expression at that moment ; 
in all the days that followed, there came no hope 
precious, no trouble terrible enough to obliterate the 
picture. As long as he lived he was destined to 
recall the pure placidity of that face. 

Next the signor would have her sing, explaining 
that she was to become Mr. Berners’ pupil. 

“ Before a teacher ? 0,1 dare not,” she murmured. 

“Come, come!” exclaimed Perrini, “H^ is not to 
criticise; he understands you have not studied.” 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


11 


The air she sang* was one familiar. Berners had 
heard it a thousand times, with its pretty, pathetic 
waltz refrain, ground out hy street musicians ; heard 
it and sickened of it. What the Avords were he 
knew not ; some prophecy, perchance, timed to the 
nesting of robins. Nevertheless he listened, and 
found, maybe, a plaintive note in her untutored voice. 

It is true you need to strengthen the upper tones, 
but there is sympathetic quality evident,’^ he said as 
he arose. 

^^You are not going?’’ exclaimed Perrini, rising 
also. We have not arranged about the lessons.” 

Berners hesitated. He was averse to accepting 
pupils from outside the pale of society. It would 
never do to bring this little lady in contact with the 
aristocratic Avomen who composed his classes, or 
even to have her meet his pupils of the opposite sex. 

hardly knoAv,” he said, ‘^Avhat hour I could 
receive her.” 

But you will come here,” interrupted Perrini. 

‘‘Here? All my pupils come to me,” shaking his 
head, yet half-inclined toAvard thd suggestion as one 
of sense, since thus might be avoided all rencontres. 

“ I have a morning hour,” he said, slowly, “ at ten, 
three days of the Aveek.” 

The signor, swift to arrange details, accompanied 
his guest out to the landing, where he stood close to 
demand congratulations upon the possession of a 
treasure. 

Berners made some hasty reply; then, overcome 
Avith impatience, rushed from the winey breath of the 
Italian to gain the cool air of the street. 

He drew a sigh of relief as he passed southward 
through trfe avenue. 

“ Poor child !” he said presently, Avith an indescrib- 


12 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


able feeling, and hastened on homeward, not forget- 
ting a lesson appointment with his new pupil for 
the early morrow. 


II. 

Signor Perrin i was seldom present during the in- 
struction hour. Berners was not suprised at this, 
deeming it a certainty the Italian maintained two sep- 
arate establishments, a legitimate wife and family be- 
ing necessarily included in the other menage. As his 
acquaintance progressed with Salome, he fell more and 
more into the habit of considering such matters. To 
him, who hitherto had known only those within the 
charmed circle of respectability, there was a fascinat- 
ing though painful novelty in dealing with people of 
this class. For this beautiful little creature, whom 
now he met so often, was, in every sense, a lady. In 
every sense but one, he said, more grimly. And this 
deficiency? Was it her fault? Clearly the signor 
adored her, and, were he a single man, would hasten 
to make her his wife. Berners had come deliberately 
to this conclusion ; putting himself in the signor’s 
place, questioning his own heart, and therewith judg- 
ing her as beautiful and good. He forebore to pity 
her, when he found that she was really happy and 
contented in her peculiar position. His knowledge of 
such arrangements had hitherto been limited to print- 
ed tales of heartless deceivers and deserted unfortu- 
nates ; but this was totally different. Salome, in her 
luxurious home, bloomed rose-like under a cloudless 
horizon. She had probably never known so much as 
a frown from the Italian. 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


13 


One day — Berners was never after certain how it 
had come about — he heard her story. He fancied he 
stood gazing* at the portiere, that glorious conclusion 
of the long apartment, and that she had spoken softly : 

You are looking at my portiere ?” 

Yes,” he had assented. It facinates me strang- 
ly. Besides, it was your handiwork.” 

^^Long ago,” she said dreamily, with the first sigh 
he had heard her utter ; Long ago !” 

So very long ?” he smiled, ‘‘ And you so young !” 

^‘It seems a long three years. And I am nine- 
teen.” 

Then (or so he fancied) he had spoken on the impulse 
of the moment : 

Will you tell me all about it ?” 

All about it ? O, it is not much ; it would not 
interest you.” 

Yes,” he said gravely. I am sure that it would 
interest me. Tell me something of your past.” He 
went over to the portiere and smoothed it with his 
hand and laid his cheek against it, as though it were 
some tawny, passive animal. 

As he returned Salome sat on her favorite hassock. 

May I sit here?” he asked, and when she nodded, 
he seated himself in the signor’s easy-chair. No soon- 
er had he done so than he felt an odd sensation at dis- 
covering himself in Perrini’s place. . . . Moreover, she 
was looking up at him as he had seen her look at the 
Italian. Her little hand, upon the chair-arm at his 
side, was fair and tender as a child’s, and as dainty to 
be taken in one’s own. Yet not for worlds would he 
have laid his palm upon it. 

You are very happy?” he asked at length. 

‘^Yes; quite happy.” She smiled as if she meant 
it. I have not been unhappy since I came here. 


14 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Before that, I was at school ; before that — ah she 

shivered. 

Go on/’ he gently urged. Please go on. Tell 
me of your troubles before that^ of your childhood.” 

Would it interest you?” 

Anything about you interests me,” he said, very 
seriously. 

But it is not pleasant to remember, and I have 
tried to forget it. O, it was terrible, until he came ! 
Until he came and was so kind and generous !” 

Berners stirred uneasily ; her words gave him no 
great joy. 

^^You had no parents?” 

I never knew them !” 

‘‘Nor any friends ?” 

“ Friends ?” She hesitated. Perhaps she had some 
faint knowledge of the degradation to which that word 
has fallen. 

“ With whom did you live ?” 

“ O ! Do not let me remember ! First, the filthy 
horrors of a narrow street, and the mercy of a cruel 
old hag, who beat me when I Avould not lie and steal ; 
beat me till I ran away from her. Then a charity 
school, where I learned to read and write and sew ; 
then a dressmaker’s shop ; then life by itself in a little 
tenement room ; then as a clerk in a shop ; then learn- 
ing quickly to paint on china and satin and velvet. 
Then, finally, work like that,” she pointed to the 
portiere. “ Work, work, work ! Slow, steady, care- 
ful ! Never a pause, though I was faint with hunger ; 
never a pause, though parched with thirst, or worn 
with pain. Every line was drawn in feverish suffer- 
ing ! Every crimson feather on the border was dyed 
with my heart’s blood!” She had begun to speak 
wildly, but seemed now to recollect herself. Her voice 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


15 


softened and fell from its shrill height. ‘‘At last he 
came ! He had seen my work in the shop — my portiere 
— and wished to buy it. When he saw me, he said : 
‘ Poor child ! Have you no friends on earth? Then I 
will be your friend.’ . . . And he was true to his 
promise. He sent me at once to school, where I re- 
mained two years. Then he brought me to this beau- 
tiful place. ‘This is your home,’ he said. ‘You are 
henceforth its queen.’ . . . Then, looking up, I saw 
my portiere, the work of my own hands, and I remem- 
bered all ; all the anguish of the past, all the toil and 
suffering and misery ! All the hopelessness ! And I 
rushed wildly to his arms crying. ‘ O, I love and 
thank you! You have saved me!’ ‘My sweet 
Salome,” he said — the name that he himself had given 
me — ‘I shall worship you forever!’ . . . And so a 
year has gone. And, there still hangs the portiere. 
. . . And I have never been unhappy !” 

Berners arose ; his heart was beating with unusual 
violence. He dared not speak at once. He must pause 
and analyze his feelings. He was strangely disturbed. 
To gain time he walked the length of the room, gaz- 
ing meanwhile at the portiere. Salome followed and 
plucked at the golden velvet to show him its lining of 
pale satin. As she did so, he caught, for the first time, 
a glimpse of the adjoining apartment, a small but ex- 
quisite library, and be^mnd a boudoir chamber. 

A thrill of sudden horror crept upon him. He had 
no power, no inclination to admire. 

And shortly after he took his leave. 

At the foot of the stairs he encountered Perrini, who 
greeted him good naturedly. 

“ You are just leaving ? And how is my little one ?” 

“ We have had a good lesson,” said Berners clum- 
sily. “You have been away ?” 


16 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


, not from the city. I have been at my 
other rooms.’’ 

''With wife and family, I suppose,” said Berners 
with a recklessness almost savage. 

"Wife ? Family ? O, dear, no ! I am a thorough 
bachelor.” 

Berners started, with a smothered exclamation. 

You are not married ?” 

" By no means. You seem surprised. What could 
have given you that impression ?” 

"Nothing — nothing! Nothing whatever. Only — 
you are not married 

Perrini laughed. 

" I have told you ' no my friend.” 

" Pardon me ! I — I — one gets strange notions occa- 
sionally.” And he stammered himself into the street, 
hardly knowing which way he went, but saying over 
and over to himself : " Not a married man ! In Christ’s 
name, then, why has he wronged her so ?” 

He could hear the question ringing in his ears, as he 
went more slowly on , his way ; on and on, into the 
street of his home, and of the Riccadonna, whose red 
flag stared at him like a pool of blood upon the 
morning sky. He could hear it surging through his 
veins, on the very current of his life. Having 
foreborne, till now, to pity her he could forbear no 
longer. 

"Poor child I” he said, with all the yearning of a 
great compassion. 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


17 


III 

Perrini was present at the next lesson, throughout 
which he sat in his easy-chair, his eyes shut, a smile 
of satisfaction on his face. When it was over he 
demanded the pleasure of walking down with the other 
gentleman. 

Berners was pleased to find opportunity for putting 
a plain question to the Italian, having made up his 
mind to do so and risk his displeasure. 

It was a gracious morning for a walk. The signor 
was in a splendid humor. He expressed delight at the 
progress of Salome. 

Berners immediately took courage to praise her 
talents and aptitude. 

‘^Yes,” said Perrini, altogether admirable, is she 
not?’’ 

She would do you credit in any position,” said 
Berners, pointedly. Then, as he fancied the Italian 
appeared pleased, he determined to push boldly 
ahead. 

You remember the other morning, perhaps. Signor 
Perrini ? When I was so — so astonished to learn you 
were not a man of family. I feel as if I owed you an 
explanation. The truth is, I was surprised to think 
that, being untrameled, you had not — you had not 
done justice to your little lady.” 

Justice ? ” 

‘‘By marrying her,” said Berners desperately. 

“ Marrying her,” repeated the Italian. “ Marrying 
Salome ? ” 

The idea was, to him, evidently so strange, so vast, 
so amazing, that he fell into it, metaphorically and 
floundered there. 


18 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


‘^Marrying* Salome ? ’’ he re-repeated. 

^^Yes/’ pursued Berners. ^‘And why not? It 
would be only just to give her the world’s esteem. 
Apart from that, she is good, beautiful, pure ! She 
loves you fondly; you love her. You are proud of 
her; you would be prouder as her husband. She is 
very inch a lady ! ” 

There he paused, as if he had lost his breath. 

Apparently the Italian was not vexed. He ab- 
sorbed the suggestion slowly, dispassionately. 

^‘Oh,” he said at length. ‘^I am sure I hardly 
know. To tell the truth I do not care for marriage, nor 
for that matter does Salome. We are perfectly happy 
in our present relations. As you have said I am 
untrameled ; and marriage is a great responsibility. 
Of course, if she desired it, if she should ask it, I 
suppose I would marry her.” 

You really would ? ” 

It is quite possible.” 

They parted at the next corner. ^^If this were the 
case,” Berners said to himself, as he turned towards 
his own avenue ; if this were the case, he had only 
to suggest the question to Salome.” 

When she had acted upon it, and Perrini had acced- 
ed, he, Berners, would be content. 

When he went next to her apartment, . Salome came 
running to meet him, with face as pale as her dress. 
(Somehow she always wore white.) 

I am so glad that you have come !” she cried. I 
am so nervous. He has not been home since yesterday 
morning ; and last night I had an awful dream. Do 
jmu believe in dreams?” 

'' Not always,” he answered, trying to smile. 

^^But this was such a horrible dream! Wait a 
moment,” She darted off and slipped behind the por- 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


19 


tiere into the library, whence she reappeared immedi- 
ately, bearing something steely and slender. ‘ ‘ Look ! ’ ’ 
she cried. This is his stiletto, an heirloom ; it al- 
ways hangs upon the wall within. Notice the blade, 
how keen and beautiful ! I dreamed that you and I 
were standing here together, and that some one — partly 
I thought it was he — came rushing out from behind the 
portiere, and stabbed me through the heart with this 
stiletto, until I fell down, and it grew dark and I no 
longer saw you 

Berners shuddered. 

^^Put it away,” he said. ^^It is a horrible tool for 
death. Only barbarians would — ah ! pardon me ! Do 
not be angry !” 

I am not angry,” she said quietly, and hastened 
to replace it. 

I cannot hear you sing yet,” he said as she re- 
turned. You have disturbed me with that horrible 
dagger.” 

Disturbed you ?” 

Yes ; let us sit down and talk awhile, until we for- 
get.” It seemed to him he hardly knew his own pur- 
pose. 

‘^You look serious,” she said. ^^What has hap- 
pened?” 

Nothing has happened.” 

But something worries you. You have had bad 
news ?” 

Nervous and perplexed, he could not look her in 
the eyes. 

^"No; I — nothing. Let us talk of yourself, of 
Signor Perrini.” He forced a smile. ‘^You are 
quite happy this morning?” 

Only for that awful dream,” she answered so 


20 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


trustfully, so like a child, that he felt at heart a great 
pang. 

I am glad of that,’’ he said, but he sighed at the 
same moment. 

I wish you could tell me what you are thinking 
about,” she cried. ^‘1 feel as if you knew something 
you feared to tell me. There has nothing happen- 
ed?” 

0, no ; nothing has happened.” 

What then?” 

What then?” he still dallied. scarcely know 
. . . . Will you believe I am your true friend ?” 

Will you promise not to be offended at anything I 
may say?” 

She grew very pale. 

Yes ; I will believe — and promise.” 

Thank you,” he said, gently. Then after a little 
delay — 

Until day before yesterday I had supposed that 
Signor Perrini was a man of family — a married 
man.” He had fixed his gaze on the carpet, lacking 
courage to meet her own. 

But, when she spoke, her quiet voice seemed only to 
invite further confidence. 

‘^Had you, indeed?” 

^‘Yes. I was surprised, astounded, when I heard 
the contrary from his own lips.” 

But why ?” How strangely quiet she appeared. 

/^Why?” he cried, springing to his feet, nerved 
suddenly to look upon her. ^^Why?” he repeated 
with stern, anxious countenance. Because I did not 
dream that any less reason would prevent his doing 
justice to you !” 

At this she also rose. 


THE CURTAIN OF HEATH. Si 

^^0, hush, hush!” she cried, trembling*. ^‘Hush. 
If he should hear you ?” 

Are you afraid of him ?” 

^^No,” she faltered, ‘‘but I would not like to have 
him hear — ” 

“Salome! you are breathless; you are shaking 
from head to foot. Be calm !” 

He lead her to the sofa, where he seated himself by 
her side. 

“ Be calm and let me speak,” he implored. “ Salome 
would you not be far happier if your position were 
made right in the eyes of the world ? Would jmu not 
be happier as his wife ?” 

“ Don’t !” she cried sharply. “ Don’t speak of such 
things ! It could never be.” 

“But why? Suppose that he were willing; that 
you had onl^^ to ask?” 

In an instant she had become a woman. The 
sweet and childlike confidence was gone. All a 
woman! Proven by the sudden fierce passion, the 
threatened desperacy of her high-pitched voice. 

“Do you think, do you imagine I would take the 
chance— the awful chance? Suppose he should re- 
fuse ? I should hate him so that I should want to 
murder him ! Do you think I would take that awful 
chance ?” 

He had no answer for her now. His heart was 
aching; aching horribly. His voice had almost a 
hopeless ring. 

“You love him then so dearly ?” 

But she grew impatient. 

“ I do not know — perhaps. He has been good to 
me. But then you should not make me think of what 
might happen.” 

He laid his hand upon her arm. 


22 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Forgive me if I have made you suffer. I thought* 
only of your welfare. It is about — all I think of — 
now.’^ 

His unsteady voice touched her. 

How good you are she cried. 

No ; I am selfish. It would please me best of all 
to know you were supremely happy.’’ 

Do not speak of that again/’ she pleaded. I am 
content as I am.” Yet a weary look came upon her 
face, a look that he had never seen before. 

You are quite sure? Suppose I told you that I 
knew you need only ask him for this — justice,” 

She started and grew again vehement. 

^‘Do you know it?” she cried. ‘^Can you assure 
me so?” 

He was silent. Could he? Would he, if he could? 
He hardly knew what this strange reluctance meant. 
What were Perrini words? suppose I should 

marry her.” Suppose”; yes that was the word. 
He felt a curious relief that the signor had not fully 
assured him. 

I think — ” he faltered. 

You think ; you do not know. Perhaps you have 
talked with him.” 

How different this from the sweet child manner of 
a short hour since. What bitter womanhood had 
found her in that space ? 

Let us never speak of it again. I am too proud 
to run such risk, and then, moreover, I am satisfied. 
But I swear to you I should hate him. I would not 
stay a day, an hour, if he should refuse. I would go 
out into the world again homeless, friendless.” 

^ ^ Friendless ?” he repeated, reproachfully. ^^You 
forget me!” 

No, no ; I do not forget,” she replied more gently. 


THE CURTAIN OP DEATH. 


23 


Salome.” He spoke in a voice scarce louder than 
whisper. Salome.” 

She turned her tearless, pitiful eyes upon him. 

Listen,” he said ; I will influence him. I can do 
it. He shall do you justice. Then, after that — ^you 
will not see me again.”' 

Not see you again ! But why ?” 

It will he better so,” he said in a subdued voice. 

But I cannot see — I do not understand. You said 
you were my friend.” 

As you shall find.” 

Then why should I not see you ? How strange ! 
How cruel !” She grew hysterical at the thought. 

^^For my own good,” he said with an effort. I 
shall not dare to come.” 

“ But I say you shall !” Her voice rose almost to a 
scream. say you shall ! We shall not be parted ! 
I will not let you go ! You are my friend — my 
friend !” 

Salome ?” 

‘‘1 cannot live! I will not let you go I” and she 
sobbed uncontrollably. 

Salome?” he cried out as if he had gone mad. 
His arms opened, and she sprang forward to his bosom. 

^^My angel I” 

my God!” she cried out with a new, terrible 
knowledge. O I my God ! this is love I” 


24 


DROPS OP blood. 


IV. 

They rested so a space ; each close-clasped in the 
arms of the other. 

Then suddenly his hold loosened. 

^^Let me go quickly/ Mie said, ^^for fear that he 
should come. I am not read3^ yet to face him.” 

But you will not leave me,” she moaned. 

I will return. O, m^^^ love ! Can it he true ? O, 
my love! And I had loved you from the first, yet 
dared not own it to myself !” 

He made her sit down in the arm-chair, for she was 
deathly pale and trembled like a leaf. Should 
Perrini arrive, an immediate explanation must be 
given ; but he would not shrink even from that. 

He knelt before her, speaking in tremulous tones : 

Listen, Salome ; are 3^011 sure you will not repent ? 
Remember that I have no wealth to offer you ; no 
home of luxury like this. But I can give you love 
and honor ! Do you understand, my darling ?” 

Yes, yes; I understand.” 

And you will choose ?” 

T have chosen,” she cried hysterically, God 
knows I have chosen !” 

He covered her hands with kisses. 

^ ‘ Only take me away !” she implored. Only take 
me away.” 

My darling one ! But about breaking it to him ? 
I want to act honorably. Shall I tell him the truth 
and ask him for you ?” 

O, you are wild,” she broke in. Wild to think 
of it. He would strangle you.” 

Salome, what then ?” 


26 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 

‘‘Q, :lie is very passionate, and I have never 
crossed him once. It would be madness to tell him.’’ 

No matter. Thank heaven I have never touched 
a cent of his cursed money. But we must lose no 
time; the morning is going. You will not he afraid 
while I am gone to make arrangements ? If he should 
come, say nothing. I am the one accountable.” 

She clung to him most pitifully. 

You are not afraid ?” he repeated. 

I hardly know. I am nervous. You — ^you don’t 
think I am acting too ungratefully. He was always 
good and kind.” 

Ungrateful ?” Berners rising, spoke calmly. 

Salome, are you repenting ? Do you prefer to 
remain with him ? I might influence him ; for your 
sake I would try hard. Speak frankly. I will not be 
angry.” 

She sprang up wildly to his arms. 

“ No, no ! I have learned my error. I have learned 
it all this morning. I will not part from you.” 

0, my love ! whatever he has done for you, you 
have recompensed him a thousand-fold, by your sweet 
presence. He should not complain! You shall not 
be sacriflced, Salome ! My wife I” 

At that sweet word she fell to sobbing. 

Take me away ! Only take me away !” 

^ ‘ Dearest, it is nearly noon. I will come at two, or 
sooner if I can. Take nothing with you, nothing of 
his gifts. I will give you all. And all I have is 
yours, my precious one! Remember — at two, or 
sooner, if I can.” 

‘^I will be ready,” she answered, breathing in a 
quick, feverish way. 

He crushed her to his heart, and hurried out. 

In his present mood, the morning became sublime. 


26 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 

The sun was shining from a cloudless sky ; delicious 
breezes blew across the city. Sublime !’’ he said, 
as he flew down the avenue. Her wonderful face sped 
constantly beside him ; her perfect face with luminous 
eyes and sweet broad brow ; her saintly face in frame 
of soft, dark hair ! So she seemed to float beside him 
all the way, her small hands clinging to his arms. 

^^My own wife,’’ he said constantly. ^^My own 
sweet wife !” 

Her image fllled his heart to overflowing. Had she 
not said she loved him ? Had she not begged him to 
take her awaj^ ? Surely it was his duty ; he was 
justifled. Had Perrini ever loved, he had not 
wronged her. This was surely the right of it. 

As he entered his own neighborhood, everything 
seemed to have taken on a brighter aspect. Even the 
flag above the Riccadonna floated more buoyantly, 
and from pool of blood had altered to the suggestion 
of crimson roses. Even the bloom of the ailantus 
grew whiter and more fragrant. The whole world 
was transfigured ! There had never come fairer day 
in the life of mortal, he said to himself. There could 
be naught sweeter than the consciousness that she 
was his forever! His frame quivered with delight; 
he walked in ecstasy ! 

:ic ^ ^ % 

It was but little after noon, when he found himself 
hastening northward, again. He went on foot; it 
seemed to him he could outstrip any horses. He 
would not stop for stage or car. 

As he flew along he seemed to see and hear every- 
thing with unusual distinctness. His senses were 
immeasurably sharpened ; he noted without effort 
every passing vehicle, every pedestrian, the merest 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 2'^ 

curbstone mendicant, the hand-organ in the gutter. 
He heard the tune that was ground out above the 
clatter of the street, and knew it suddenly as that 
which she had sung the first and fateful night three 
weeks before — a ballad with a waltz refrain. The 
music followed him, faint and pathetic as the wind- 
blown fragrance of a fiower. 

Still on and on he went until within a few blocks of 
the place, when he uttered a startling cry. For in 
the distance she was coming down to meet him. Yes, 
surely it was she ; her white dress shone and fiuttered 
in the sun and wind; she came proudly, each slender 
foot seeming gently to spurn the ground she trod. 
Her lovely face was lifted to the sunlight ; her glossy 
hair was all uncovered ; her hands were held with 
grace before her. In his ecstatic mood he seemed to 
see her fioating lightly toward him. 

He had to pause at a crossing then while a carriage 
passed, obstructing his view. When it was gone, he 
looked again — ^but she had vanished ! He felt a 
curious pang. Perhaps it was wiser for her to return 
and await him under shelter. He hurried on, and in 
a few moments had gained the entrance hall. 

You have come,” her soft voice said; and turning 
he discovered her coming up the stairs from the 
basement. 

^‘1 have been down in the store-room,” she said. 
‘‘1 went down to put on this dress — it was in a little 
trunk of mine. Will it do ?” 

Will it do ?” he repeated mechanically, for he saw 
she was not in white, but wore a plain, -dove-colored 
gown, very simple, ver^^ girlish in effect. 

^^How quickly you changed it!” he stammered. 

You wore white a moment ago in the street.” 

In the street ? Oh, no ; I was not in the street.” 


28 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Just a few moments ago/’ he said. saw you, 
darling.” 

She smiled. 

O, no ; you were mistaken. I have been half an 
hour and longer in the store-room. Why are we 
standing here ? Come up at once.” 

He followed with a confused feeling. 

‘^How careless!” she cried, as they entered the 
apartment. ^‘1 must have left the door unlocked. 
Any one might have walked in while I was gone.” 

Berners appeared still perplexed. 

‘‘I could have sworn it was 3 ^ou coming to meet 
me,” he cried. Ah, well ! Perhaps I imagined it. 
That would not be strange ; my eyes are full of you 
to-day.” 

And shall we go at once ?” she asked anxiously. 

We have no time to lose. You spoke of a trunk. 
Do you want to take it ? I should have brought a 
carriage. Wait here and I will go for one. I will not 
be live minutes. You are all ready, darling?” 

All ready,” she answered breathlessly. 

And will you leave any word ?” 

No word.” 

You will not regret it, darling ?” 

Regret loving you ! Perhaps I am ungrateful’; 
perhaps — ” 

^^Hush!” Berners started and grew pale. I 
thought I heard some one at the door.” 

She listened and reassured him. 

It was on the floor above. 

‘‘Remember, Salome, it is not too late. Be sure 
you make no error. Be very sure you do not prefer 
his love — ” 

“ Prefer ! I tell you I do not love him ! I will not 
stay with him ; not if he should offer a thousand 


THE CURTAIN OF DEATH. 


29 


marriages. Whether I go to be your wife, or go 
alone, I go ; this day, this hour. I was blind ; you 
have opened my eyes !” 

‘‘ My own ! My own ! And you will not regret the 
beauty of these rooms — your marvelous portiere?’’ 

I w^ould go to a garret with you !” she cried. 

Was it but fancy or did the tawny velvet seem t 
tremble with suppressed fury — as it were, became 
animate ? 

will not be long,” he said, ^^and then we shall 
never part again. Never as long as we both shall 
live.” 

^‘As long as we both shall live,” she repeated 
solemnly, and her face wore the serious beauty of an 
angel’s. 

My wife !” he said ; his last, fond words. 

Then he left her standing there, while he hastened 
out upon his errand. The hand-organ he had heard 
in the avenue was now in the street before the house, 
and played the same pathetic tune. He heard it dis- 
tinctly as he hurried away. 

^ ^ * 

He was longer than he had anticipated finding a 
carriage. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed ; half 
an hour ! At last he was driven back to the entrance, 
and flew up the stairway in a fever of impatience. 

He knocked sharply. 

^‘Salome !” 

Did she not hear ? Was she not awaiting him ? 

^‘Salome!” he cried again, and knocked more 
loudly. 

Why did she not come ? Where had she gone ? He 
flew down to the basement ; the store-room was 
locked and silent. He rushed back up to her room. 

Salome!” he cried in terror. Open quickly!” 


30 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Then a sudden, horrible thought came to him. Her 
dream he said ; O, Christ forbid 

Perhaps she was back in the boudoir and could not 
hear him. Perhaps, exhausted with excitement, she 
had laid down and fallen asleep. He kept on knocking 
loudly. Every moment now was precious ; the after- 
noon advanced. Perrini might appear at any instant. 

In an agon^^ of fear and suspense he threw himself 
against the door, and with a desperate effort burst 
it open. 

^‘Salome!’’ he cried, as he bounded through the 
entry to the drawing-room. 

But there he paused, transfixed with horror, and 
an icy clutch seemed to fasten on his heart. 

O, my God !” he cried. Then, with a shriek that 
pierced the silence of the house, he fell down senseless. 

What, then, had met his view ? Had he not judged 
correctly ? Had she not fallen asleep ? 

Aye ; but there was more to tell. Torn from its 
brazen rings, the peacock portiere now swept the 
carpet by the doorway, and bore another burden than 
rich tracery of brush. For over its gaudy beauty, 
clasping it, even as she had fallen, lay Salome, a thin 
stream trickling from her bosom, to dye the dove- 
hued dress a deathly purple. And close beside her, 
with distorted face (her own most peaceful), lay 
Salvator Perrini ; in his right hand gleamed yet the 
heirloom, the stiletto, and from his breast there also 
oozed a crimson current. And over the thing, which, 
long ago, had linked their destinies, and which had 
veiled him from her sight this fateful day, and in this 
fashion wrought their deaths, even the golden por- 
tiere, seemed fiercely to press closer, like a terrible, 
tawnjj^ tiger ; to press closer and creep about them 
and thirstily lap their life-blood. 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON, 


I. 

Robertine had finished mending her best pair of 
gloves, and was regarding them with a gaze half 
sarcastic, half philosophical. Her mother was busy 
cooking a spirituelle sort of supper on an oil-stove in 
the room adjoining. They leased the entire house— 
a three-story and basement brick, rather centrally 
located — and re-let furnished or unfurnished suites in 
such a way as to clear their household expenses, while 
they reserved for themselves the double parlors and 
the joys of proprietorship. 

The3^ were very comfortably arranged. In the 
evening Robertine prettily attired, and just a little 
rosy-cheeked from hurrying preparations, could close 
the folding-doors, draw the portieres, and amuse 
herself at a dear little upright piano, while awaiting 
the advent of certain attentive eligible young gentle- 
men. 

Of these Mr. Wilfred Wales was perhaps the one 
whose coming she could anticipate with greatest 
equanimity. Not that he was unusually handsome — 
beyond the frequency of new clothes — or talented, or 
witty, or original. Not because of any subtle charm 
of personality", like that of one poor Dick Ethel, whom 
she had known much longer, and who, she was forced 


32 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


to acknowledge, would probably always remain the 
same visionary enthusiast and Bohemian. 

Poor Dick ! If he would only cease trying to make 
a living with his pen, and become a practical member 
of society— a tailor, or shoemaker, or lawyer, or 
speculator, or anything else that was honest ! 

No! But it was thus: while Wilfred Wales was 
calling, Robertine knew there would be no after 
remarks from her mother — that good lady being at 
such times content to retire early to peaceful dreams 
and a bookcase bedstead — leaving her daughter wholly 
un-chaperoned, according to certain Western usages. 

Besides Mr. Wales was a moneyed young man with 
further expectations,^^ and Robertine felt it would 
be folly to discourage his suit. 

Robertine Ferris knew herself so thoroughly I Knew 
ail her disadvantages, and all her little points.’’ 
She had long since classified herself as a moderately 
pretty brunette, who could sing passably, and play 
Wagner, or Beethoven, or Chopin fairly well ; who 
could read a French novel without a dictionary, write 
a dashing letter, and dance all night without tiring a 
partner. She never permitted herself to forget that 
she had neither fortune nor family — a blue lookout for 
any girl of twenty; that she possessed no great 
talents ; that she was physically too delicate for con- 
tinuous labor — besides being unfitted by ambition for 
the life of a working woman. 

Yet sometimes she grew heartsick; she wearied of 
doing copying on a rented typewriter, or addressing 
envelopes by the thousand, or even of scheming how 
best to spend the paltry sums thus earned. 

But what else was there? ^^You couldn’t become 
a clerk,” said her mother, ^^it takes away a girl’s 
social position.” 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


33 


she has any to begin with/’ said Robertine 
bitterly. 

However, they had thus far gotten on very well 
without touching the insurance money received at the 
death of Robertiiie’s lamented father, which was little 
enough at best and which the mother would require 
for herself when once the daughter was married. 

Robertine, straightening out the carefully mended 
gloves, remarked pensively, Now, I am ready to go 
anywhere, if only some one would invite me.” 

“If I were you,” admonished her mother, I 
wouldn’t go anywhere with any one but Mr. Wales. 
If he sees you running around with common tugs like 
Dick Ethel, he’ll ship you!” Mrs. Ferris was often 
more forcible than elegant, and always unconscious of 
nautical tendencies in her speech. She was a thin, 
nervous women with an extraordinary contempt for 
the hoi polloi. She was often heard to say that she 
had been struggling for years to keep her head above 
water, as well as that of her husband, which, by the 
way, had gone underground in spite of her. 

Robertine colored. ^^I never go with any one I’m 
ashamed of,” she cried indignantly. 

“0, I presume you feel able to manage your own 
affairs. Some folks when they have a little good luck 
act as if it would never be day with them,” rejoined 
the elder lady antiphrastically. 

‘^Now, mother, what is the use of talking that 
way? Let us have our supper in peace,” said 
Robertine plaintively, and they did, after which 
Robertine returned to the front parlor, and stood 
looking out upon the street. 

Mother,” she said suddenly, “ shall I close the 
folding-doors? Dick Ethel is coming across.” 

“O, yes; for heaven’s sake shut the doors, so I 


34 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


needn’t hear him yarning*. If I were you I would 
not waste my time on such common — ” 

Robertine banged the doors, rattled the portiere, 
and thus escaped the rest. 

^^Come right in, Dick,” she said, hastening to 
admit him, don’t stop to ring.” 

‘^You are alone?” he asked. I thought you 
might be engaged.” 

You see I am not.” 

Your mother is well, I trust ?” 

Quite well.” 

I met her on the street to-day, but I don’t think 
she saw me.” 

^‘Perhaps not,” said Robertine mildly, remembering 
her mother’s disdain for this common mortal. ^‘But 
what are you doing nowadays, Dick? What is the 
latest achievement ?” 

I havn’t done much to-day,” he answered, but I 
have thought of so much that I would like to do. O, 
I have had such beautiful thoughts ! Dreams that I 
would like to share with you.” 

Robertine stirred uneasily. 

I have had some fine thoughts, too,” she answered 
with an attempt at lightness. I have been thinking 
of getting married.” 

She saw him start and regard her curiously, but she 
did not pause for that. 

^‘Yes, I have about decided that the only sensible 
thing I can do is get married.” 

Robertine !” he said in a shocked voice. 

You think I am joking, perhaps ; but I am not. I 
am taking a practical view of the matter. I must find 
a rich husband. You see I belong to a very good-for- 
nothing class — incapable and indolent, yet ambitious 
for social distinction ; of mediocre talents, yet of 


tTNCOMMOi^LY COMMON. 


S5 

refined tastes, with a disgustingly superficial educa- 
tion.’’ 

Robertine !” he repeated distressfully. But you 
couldn’t sell yourself — ^you couldn’t marry for money 
alone.” 

Not exactly,” she answered in a cheerful tone ; 

I require also a fairly good looking husband with 
a suspicion of intelligence. While a girl is about 4t, 
why shouldn’t she happen to fall in love with a man 
who is well-off ? I regard it as my duty to do this, 
and — ^by the way — you would do well to follow my 
example.” 

He changed his seat and took one beside her on the 
sofa, speaking in pained reproachful accents. 

^‘Robertine, these thoughts are unworthy of you. 
Nor can I comprehend why you should utter them. 
We — we have been friends — ” he stopped suddenly 
as if something in his throat were hurting him. 

Robertine was also silent — but only for a brief 
space. She could hear her mother moving about in the 
room adjoining. The sound had its own effect upon 
her. 

Ah, Richard, ^ Art is long and life is fleeting,’ as 
the poet remarks. We, who are poor, must eschew 
noble thoughts. We have to be prosaic; we have to 
think where our dinner is to come from, and how to 

pay our rent Why, even you and I 

might be sill}^ enough to fall in love with each other ; 
but it wouldn’t do, would it ? O, no ; it would be 
ridiculous — mad ! The very last thing on earth !” 

^^The last thing on earth,” he repeated quietly. 
They were not looking at each other now ; and they 
had both grown pale. 

Robertine was first to recover herself. 

“The very last,” she said again, as if to make it 


36 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


more emphatic. ‘ ‘ Richard, I want to tell you about 
some things.’’ 

Yes,” he said absently. 

''Richard, this is pleasant weather, but it is not 
always summer. I suppose you know that in 
winter-time people have to have warm flannels.” 

Richard, at any other time might have deemed her 
words sadly irrelevant, but now he only sighed 
inquiringly. 

"Well?” 

"Well . . . last winter — ^you remember how the 
thermometer stood frequently — how man^^ flannels do 
you suppose mother and I had apiece ?” 

" Three, perhaps,” he ventured wearily. 

"No, indeed. We had just three between us. It 
kept one being laundried all the time, you know. This 
was simply heart-harrowing, besides wearing out the 
garments too soon.” 

He breathed so painful a sigh that her heart seemed 
to bleed within her — she felt as if she had stabbed him 
and herself as well. 

He rose without speaking. 

"You are not going, Dick ?” 

"Yes,” he faltered, "I must go and finish some 
work. I — I hope you will not do anything hasty. 
Robertine, if ever you should need a friend — a poor 
friend, but still a true friend — remember I am ready 
to — to do anything for you.” 

Then he went out quickly. 

Mrs. Ferris slid open the folding-doors, " Gone at 
last?” she asked, glancing through the windows at 
the tall form crossing the street with slow, dispirited 
gait. " If he doesn’t look common !” 

Robertine had gone to the piano. 

"Mother,” she cried impatiently, "if Major 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


37 


Drummond proposes again to you, you’d better 
marry him. He is uncommon enough to suit you^ — 
especially his temper.” 

She could have sobbed aloud. At that moment she 
despised herself. She fancied she saw him ascending 
to his poor garret, in the boarding-house across the 
way — his grey, cheerless, pathetic quarters — and 
sitting down uncomforted to his work. She could see 
his pale face and sad brown e^^es. 

She despised herself and her mother and Wilfred 
Wales, and all the cruel, bitter world ! 

She began to play Mendelssohn, and immediately her 
mother spoke. 

The piano rent is due to-morrow, Robertine, I 
wonder if I will have it in time. They are so exact- 
ing.” 

Robertine changed to fierce opera melodies, and 
immediately Mr. Wales arrived. 

Mrs. Ferris had made her escape. The portieres 
were drawn properly. 

was thinking of you,” said Robertine sweetly 
and truthfully. 

Of me ? Is that so ? I am so glad.” 

He pressed her hand warmly. 

He was a well-built young man, frank and rather 
prepossessing. But he never romanced or indulged in 
ben trovato poesy, as poor Dick Ethel was wont. He 
was a cheerful caller and often made her laugh ; then 
there were other moments when she could as well 
have yawned. 

Take the easy-chair,” she begged ; and I will sit 
here on the sofa.” 

""Thanks,” said Mr.-^Wales, twinkling his great 
diamond ring by careless motions of his hand. "" I say, 
what do you think ? I am going to change my hotel,” 


38 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Indeed ! I thought you liked the place so much.’’ 
did^ until this morning. Never was more sur- 
prised in my life. Found a fly in my omelet.” 

A fly ?” said Rohertine, 

A fly ; and for that reason I — fly.” 

He chuckled for a moment, then grew sober. 

Robertine was gazing out into the twilight. 

^^What are you looking at?” he asked. ‘^That 
literar^^ friend of yours coming out across? Clever 
fellow, isn’t he ! Wish I could write as he does. But, 
do you know — I may be mistaken, of course — I fancy 
the poor fellow hasn’t a good tailor.” 

Robertine answered calmly. 

I think it more probable that he has none at 
all.” 

What ! you don’t mean he is distressed ? That 
would be hard. A fellow that can reel off such clever 
things. I’d like to help him out some way or other. 
Do you think he’d be offended if a person tried to 
help him out a little with a small loan. 

I know he’d be offended,” said Robertine with 
great decision. She had a very Arm impression that 
Mr. Wales had a habit of offering to be liberal. 

I daresay,” he assented. These literary people 
are as proud as the dickens.” 

^^But about your hotel?” Robertine was quite 
willing to change the subject. 

Well, I have fully decided to make a change. A 
hotel is well enough, but a man gets to thinking he’d 
like a home of his own.” 

He left the easy chair for the sofa, quite as Richard 
Ethel had done so short a time before. 

Robertine,” he said softly, and took possession of 
her hand. Robertine, you know w'hat I mean, don’t 
you?” 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


39 


do not know what you mean,’’ she answered in 
a low, firm voice. 

Don’t you, darling*? Don’t you know I love you 
and want you for a wife? Yes, I want a wife and a 
home.” 

She heard every word. It did not escape her that 
he wanted a wife — and a home. She resisted no 
longer, hut allowed him to draw her face nearer, 
nearer, until his lips touched her cheek. 

It was really accomplished ! Mrs. Ferris, in the 
room adjoining, where she had not missed a word, 
sighed contentedly. After all, she was the mother 
of a very sensible daughter. She decided to enter and 
become formally apprised of the truth. 

She softly opened the folding doors, and stepped 
between the portieres. 

^‘Here are some matches, my dear,” she said kind- 
ly. It is growing quite dark.” 

Mr. Wales was not long in announcing the engage- 
ment and soliciting the good lady’s consent and ap- 
proval. 

Mrs. Ferris stood for a moment in silence, as if 
thoroughly surprised. Then became audible the be- 
nevolence of a certain little speech, which she had 
taken great pains to rehearse. 

^^I am not wholly astonished,” she said, ‘^Rober- 
tine is so frank that she has poorly concealed from me 
her increasing regard for you. I am overjoyed that 
she has chosen one so worthy of her, and — and I con- 
gratulate you both.” After which she withdrew with 
unusual dignity. 

Mr. Wales remained for an hour. Then he told his 
betrothed she looked weary, and he would not keep 
her up. He kissed her hand and went away in an 
amiable mood. 


40 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Robertine, however, on r-^ tiring, was extremely 
wakeful. She tossed so violentl}^ that her mother re- 
minded her of the style of bed they occupied. 

^‘You are not crossing the Channel/’ she said se- 
verely, nor on a Sound steamer.” 

Mother,” retorted the girl, don’t you really 
think you will marry Major Drummond? He is so 
very devoted ; he has a neat income, and stands well 
socially. There is nothing common about him.” 

Why do you want me to marry him ?” 

Well, I have led Mr. Wales to understand that 
you are thoroughly independent — a very desirable 
mother-in-law. ^ Mrs. Major Drummond’ sounds 
very imposing, mother, and nobody need know the 
acquaintance began through his advertising for 
unfurnished rooms.” 

I’ll think about it, Robertine.” 

Dick Ethel heard the news the next day, when he 
called and found Robertine absent. 

I hope she may be very happy,” he said quietly, 
and took his leave. 

He repeated this hope in a brief note to the girl 
herself, with an added, I pray God to bless you 
forever and ever !” 

Robertine read the letter with tear-blinded eyes. 

Dear old Dick ! I was not worth^’^ of him.” 

shall accept Major Drummond,” said Mrs. 
Ferris, soon after. 

am glad of it, mother. There is no one I would 
rather you should marry. As for the gout, it only 
troubles him occasionally, and baldness has come to 
be curable.” 

He will do,” said the elder lady sharply. Per- 
haps you will, too, if you maintain your dignity and 
stop associating with common trash like Dick Ethel.” 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


41 


Robertine turned pale. 

Mother, don’t mention Dick Ethel again, if you 
please. We are none of us fit to lace his shoes !” 

Robertine was married in late October, and wore 
the white satin and orange blossoms over a heart that 
grew colder as it grew lighter. As the days passed, 
she developed more sense than sentiment, which 
although it did not disturb Mr. Wales, surprised him 
somewhat. 

‘^Dearest,” he said, one night early in the honey- 
moon, you married me for love, did you not ?” 

Why, that is really a remarkable question,” said 
Robertine cheerfully. If I had hated you, I certain- 
ly would not have married you.” She was sitting on 
the side" of the bed and looked bewitching in her 
rose-pink neglige. 

And if I had been poor, you would have loved me 
just as well, wouldn’t you ?” 

I can’t tell,” she replied with utter candor. 
‘^If you had been poor, we might never have met, or 
I might have loved some one else, and you might not 
have cared for me. Don’t you see ? Why, it’s noth- 
ing against one’s lover that he has a little money. O, 
no ; I am quite sure it’s nothing against him !” 

She spoke very earnestly, and she looked so charm- 
ing that he stooped and kissed her cheek, laughing 
merrily the while. 


i2 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


11 . 

It had grown dark in the room, but, standing in 
the open window, she looked down upon the square 
before the hotel where a hundred ruddy lamps shone 
over the empty benches and the asphalt roads. The 
keen autumnal wind came crying in her ears — a wail- 
ing cry for summer dead and gone ! And the waiting, 
the suspense seemed endless ! 

An hour before — when they had first arrived — she 
had sent her maid in search of one whose telegram 
had brought them hither — a chance Samaritan who 
alone could direct them to the sick one sought. 

The porter had finished bringing up the trunks ; 
dusk had come on; it grew late. Yet the maid had 
not returned. Why should this Samaritan, if such 
he were, after bringing them a thousand miles hither, 
delay at the final moment. How senseless it seemed. 
She sighed and clenched her slim hands upon her vel- 
vet dress, and sickened over the street sounds and the 
wailing wind. 

One vague thought seemed to hover through her 
mind : If she had only known before — if she had only 
known that he was ill or in want, or even his where- 
abouts ! 

Yet everything was vague now; even the strange 
last year which had made her wife and widow and 
taught her to forget things easily. She had even for- 
gotten to remember the husband whose death had 
freed her, whose wealth empowered. For after the 
first shock of the horrible accident — the railroad 
tragedy that had cut short his life and the lives of 
others — her duty seemed somehow to have ended with 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


43 


a green-hedged hillock in a western cemetery and a 
simple shaft, gold-lettered ^^To the memory of Wil- 
fred Wales, aged 28.” 

And she, Rohertine Wales, though grateful for the 
wealth he had left her — the splendid wealth as com- 
pared to her girlhood poverty — was never hypocrite. 
She wore no mourning robes, indulged no showy 
grief. If she had felt any one secret longing it was 
the desire to make amends for the wrong she had done 
this other man, the man she sought to-night, the man 
who had loved her, and whose name was Richard 
Ethel. 

The maid returned at length. 

Rohertine sprang to meet her. 

Light the gas, Marie. And tell me, quick !” 

The woman loosened her bonnet-strings carefully. 

He was not there, Madame. The door of the 
office was locked. We must wait till morning.” 

A flood of light that seemed to have broken bounds 
and surged through the room proved the comfort and 
luxury of the place. The lady stood revealed a lithe 
brunette, with something imperious in her bearing, 
something regal in her costume of reddish velvet and 
jewels clinging here and there like splendid tears. 

Morning!” she echoed. ^^He may be dying! 
Get a directory and look up that man’s residence — 
hurry !” 

I have done so, Madame ; it is not there. He may 
live out of town, perhaps.” 

Rohertine turned in despair and flung herself into 
a seat. 

Everything seems against me ; it is simply terri- 
ble. . . . Well, go down to your supper, Marie. 

And order me a cup of strong coffee ; I shall need a 
stimulant.” 


44 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Perhaps she was right. 

At intervals during the night the maid was roused 
from her sleep in the room adjoining by the sound of 
some one walking to and fro in silence ; not sighing 
or moaning, but quietly, constantly keeping in motion. 
In the morning she found her mistress already dressed 
— in the same red velvet. 

They set off early for the office of the gentleman who 
knew the address. The carriage seemed hours in 
threading its way through the crowded streets. And 
Robertine was too weak to dismount when they had 
found the place. The maid went in and brought him 
out to the curbing. 

I hope you will pardon my telegraphing,’’ he said, 
with deference to her beauty — and her jewels, but 
really he seemed in a very serious condition. And he 
had requested me in case of his death — ” 

Robertine was very white. 

Yes, yes ; I am grateful. His number, please ?” 

He turned and gave it to the coachman. 

Thank you,” she said faintly. Good-by.” And 
the carriage door shut with a snap. 

She covered her eyes and kept silence as they rode. 
She remembered shb must not shock him in any way, 
must not forget it was his heart. Here she shuddered. 
But surely all the tender care and the efforts she 
would lavish must soon avail. He must recover, 
whether or not he forgive her. 

‘^Is this the place?” she asked, trembling as she 
looked up the narrow staircase of the old building. 
How steep it seemed ! She leaned hard upon the 
maid’s assisting arm. 

Go ahead,” she whispered, when they had reached 
the landing. Tell the nurse an old friend has come.” 

She steadied herself against the balusters and heard 


tTNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


45 


the door open and close. Then she drew a deep breath 
and followed on and in. 

At first she could not see ; it seemed as if she had 
stepped into a dense, gra^dsh fog*, through which 
pathetic outlines peered and grew distinct. Then lan- 
guid eyes unclosing beamed upon her with placid joy. 

dreamed you were here,” he said. God bless 
you, Robertine !” 

She knelt and laid her cheek upon his hand, trying 
to speak steadily : 

Dear Richard ! You have been very ill.” 

Yes, I — I am very weak, but I am better.” 

You will soon be well. I have come to take care 
of you. This is my maid, I sent her ahead, not to 
shock you. Where is your nurse ?” 

He moved his head in gentle negative. 

X have none.” 

But who has been with you ?” 

A little girl came sometimes, a neighbor; but she 
went away yesterday. The doctor comes at 5.” 

And you were alone ?” 

For the most part.”’ 

O,” she said shuddering. Presently she rose and 
gave the servant orders ; the woman went out at 
once. 

‘^1 have sent for some things,” she explained, stand- 
ing midway in the room and studying his wanness. 

He smiled. 

Ah, come back to me, Robertine.” 

I am here,” she hid her face in the coverlet and 
sobbed. 

Dear love, you loved me ! . . . I somehow 

dreamed you loved me. Why do you cry, Robertine, 
when I am happy — so happy in your presence ?” 

I will be quiet,” she said after a moment. Tell 


46 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


me about you illness, Richard. He said it was heart- 
trouble.’’ 

^^Yes, it is so. Lean your head down — so, dear. 
Listen — do you hear?” 

She started up with frantic affright. ^^It sounds 
strangely — it does not beat like mine.” 

That is why I must lie here so helplessly,” he said, 
sighing. I cannot even reach up to clasp your 
precious face. . . . But I shall soon be better.” 

Has it been long?” Her voice shook. 

The first was last year, after — well a year ago. 
I was very ill for weeks, then it seemed to leave 
me.” 

A year ago,” she repeated. 

Yes, and longer. Do you remember our last meet- 
ing ? The afternoon when I sat in your mother’s 
parlor when you said to me — oh, so many things — 
things that I could not forget were I to live for 
centuries ? ‘Art is long and life is fleeting,’ you said. 
‘We have no time to be great or foster grand 
thoughts. You and I might be silly enough to fall in 
love with each other. ... It would be ridiculous — 
mad ! The very last thing on earth.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Robertine, huskily, “I — I said those 
things — I remember.” 

“ You warned me, but it was too late. I went out 
into the summer evening and crossed the street to my 
lodgings. . . . There are some things we can 

never forget.” He paused a moment as if to breathe. 
■‘The next day I came again to your house. I had 
not slept all night for thinking of you. I came to tell 
3^ou that I loved you in spite of your warning ; that I 
would give my life for you ; that I would alter my 
ways, renounce my dreams of authorship ; that I 
would go into business, become clerk, bookkeeper, 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


47 


teacher, copyist, anything* I could turn my hand to 
that would insure a certain income. I would not ask 
you to risk starvation or — ^your mother’s displeasure. 
But I would implore you not to sell yourself ; for your 
own sake would I plead more than for mine. I dread- 
ed lest the after days discover you bound fast to one 
you could not love — bound by the most insuperable of 
ties. Ah, how I feared for you with your restless, 
high-strung nature ! . . . You were not at home, 

but I saw your mother. She was very joyous ; she 
had pleasant news for me, she said: ‘ Could I guess V 
She was more cordial than I had ever known her. 
^ Well, ’she said, ^ it is about Robertine; she is en- 
gaged to Mr. Wales; it was all arranged last even- 
ing.’ For a moment I thought the world must be on 
fire, for everything blazed and scorched my senses. 
I spoke through the fiame — said something trivial, 
and came away. When I was outside again I began 
to walk rapidly — oh, so rapidly. It seemed the only 
possible relief. I kept on walking as if frenzied ; I 
followed the boulevard south for miles, into the sub- 
urbs. It was a chilly day ; one of those sudden west- 
ern changes from midsummer warmth to biting cold. 
I could not stop walking for fear of my awful 
thoughts. I could see but one picture wherever I 
looked — yourself and your betrothed sitting side by 
side on the sofa in your mother’s parlor where only 
the hour before you had sat with me. And I knew 
you did not love him. ... I walked on in my 
frenzy, with perspiration streaming from my fore- 
head ; walked and kept on walking until — I fell. It 
was that, I think, that brought on the attack.” 

O, don’t, don’t !” cried Robertine wildly. 

Don’t for the love of Heaven !” Then she fiung 
herself forward on the fioor and wailed aloud, and 


48 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


beat the carpet and the air alternately with jeweled 
hands. 

Murderess that I am ! Why have I lived ? Why 
have I lived 

Robertine.’’ The wistful voice quelled her out- 
cries and drew her up again to moan at his side. 

Forgive me ; I forgot. I have done you harm. I 
will be quiet.’^ She hid her face and cried quietly. 

There now, dear; there now.^’ He patted her 
hand as he would a child’s. 

Tell me about yourself,” he went on softly. I 
see you wear no mourning.” 

^^No.” She looked down at her dress. ^‘Why 
should I ? Besides, I never believed in it.” 

He smiled. I remember you always argued 
against it. . . . And your husband was kind ?” 

O, yes,” impatiently. He was kind.” 

^‘1 am glad he was kind,” he said tenderly. 
feared so much for what might come to you in the 
after days. I knew you would crave companionship. 
I am glad he was kind to you.” 

^^He was well enough. I can’t tell how long it 
would have endured. He was often tiresome.” Then 
wildly : But what do I care for him now ?” 

^‘He is dead,” said Richard gently. 

No more a saint for that. Do you think I have 
forgotten what he said that night — that night when 
you had gone away?” she shivered. ^^He wanted a 
wife and — a home. The wife was a necessary adjunct. 
He said so ; yes, he said so ; and I consented. I was 
forced to consent. What alternative had I? You 
knew our circumstances ; the little insurance money, 
that mother would need for her old age, Avas all we 
had in the wide world. I was nothing — nothing in 
beauty, nothing in scholarship, nothing in cleverness ; 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


49 


a poor, ambitious fool ! . . . But I was revenged ! 

Do you think I ever let him have his wish ? Did we 
ever have a home? Never! I dragged him about 
from city to city till the winter was half over — then 
across the ocean, then back again. And I should 
have gone on dragging him about had he lived.’’ 

'‘He is dead,” said Richard, softl^^ once again. 

" Well?” fiercely. " What right had he to feel so 
assured, so certain he could have me.? What right, I 
say?” 

Richard sighed. Perhaps he was casting about for 
means of diverting her. He reached out and smoothed 
the velvet sleeve. 

“ Beautiful dress !” he said. " Beautiful jewels ! 
Fit for my queen-love.” 

No jealousy burned in his heart or marred his 
praise. 

“ Better than what I had in the old days, Richard ? 
The old patched-up dresses and benzine-tinctured 
gloves.” 

"No, not that,” he answered vaguely. “And 
your mother, Robertine? She too was married, I 
heard.” 

" Yes ; she married old Major Drummond with the 
bald head and uncommon temper. She had a great 
horror of anything or anybody common. Perhaps 
you remember.” 

"I remember very well. And she is happy, I sup- 
pose.” 

" I presume so ; she does not ne0d to let rooms. I 
seldom visit her, for we never could agree. And she 
was horrified that I wore no crape. Ugh ! It would 
make me sick.” 

Richard studied her face and the faultless outline of 
her head. 


50 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Lean down to me, dear love/’ he said at length. 

We are happy, are we not, at last ?” 
you were only well.” 

I shall be better soon. I am so happy now, it 
seems as if all had happened for the best. I think I 
would not have it different, past or present.” 

^‘O,” she said wearily, don’t know. I expect to 
reap suffering — I deserved it. But you — what had 
you done ?” 

Perhaps it was what I had not done; some sin of 
omission. God knows. But, Robertine, I have been 
working very hard of late. Dear, if I should die — don’t 
shrink and sob — my work is yonder in the old desk. I 
fancied you might care. If I live, perhaps the world 
will read one day and speak with kindness. . . . 

All my happiness has been in work. The truest, hap- 
piest existence I think must be in doing the work we 
love the best. . . . There was a woman’s face be- 

fore me alwa^^s — a sweet and fearless profile so like 
your own in miniature that I found myself pausing to 
gaze until tears came and quenched the vision. It 
was only a face stamped in the corner of the paper I 
wrote upon. And yet it brought you very near — so 
near that I could feel your presence and breathe your 
favorite heliotrope. And so I seemed to have kept 
you mine in spite of fate.” 

^^I,” she said presently, in the bitterness of re- 
morse. ^ ‘ I who had made you suffer ?” 

Dear, I never knew what to live meant until I had 
suffered. I say a^in I do not think I would have it 
any different if I could, past or present.” 

When she next spoke it was cheerfully and with 
steady judgment. 

^^I am not going to let you talk any more. You 
will be exhausted. You must rest.” 


UNCOMMONLY COMMON, 


51 


has done me good to talk,” he answered. 
Nevertheless he closed his eyes at her gentle bidding. 

She turned to the window; her watch had stopped at 
five, but she thought it must be noon. The sunlight 
came broadlj^ upon the gray ness of the room. Such a 
room she had not seen for months — long months. It 
gave her a strange heart-sickness. She went over to 
the little clock on a shelf in the farther corner. This 
also had stopped, and, like her watch, at five. 

She wondered why her maid reniained away so long. 
She peeped into the old desk and toucfied a pile of 
manuscript in reverent awe, then turned away. She 
looked at the medicine on the stand at the bedside, 
and wondered she had not thought of it before. But 
she would not disturb him while he dozed. She picked 
up his hat, which had fallen off its hook, and hung it 
carefully over his coat. Neither was new, she was 
sure. Perhaps she seen them both before. She 
turned away with a choking sensation. 

The maid came in presently with a load of delica- 
cies, and Robertine, taking them from her arms, bade 
her return to the hotel and unpack'the trunks. 

‘^Take out a dark dress,” she said, thoughtfully, 
^^not a silk. This red is garish; it tires me. And 
come back before dark.” 

She took the papers from the fruit and wine and 
folded them irresolutely, as if she scarcely knew her 
own purpose. 

He rested so calmly that she dreaded even to move 
about the room lest some sound should disturb and 
harrass him. 

She wondered if the doctor would come before dark. 
She meant to ask instructions about the medicine and 
other things. 

The yellowish sunlight fell peacefully on the fioor ; 


52 


DKOPS OF BLOOD. 


there was great calm somewhere, very near, she felt, 
hut as yet elusive and tremulous. When she could 
grasp that calm she fancied there would fall some 
startling revelation, some veil woidd be rent, and 
she would so stand face to face with the sweetest, the 
most sacred hour of her life. And ever after she 
would remember how this had come about. 

The afternoon drifted ; she drifted also, she 
thought, below, beyond the passion of the past. She 
wondered where the current would bear her by and 
by. Would life be rounded some day in the distance 
with love and all its fancied glories ? . . . 

Robertine.’’ His voice was faint yet satisfied. 

Sit nearer to me, love, and let me ask you things.’’ 

You have slept, dear, have you not ?” she asked. 

Yes — some.” 

Still the afternoon drifted. Nor had she thought of 
the approaching night. 

There were so many things,” he pursued dreami- 
ly, so many questions that arose and perplexed. I 
often wondered if you could not answer them. One 
was of a star— the same star that we fancied in the old 
days of our comradeship. I think it must be there — 
surely it must be there. And either one would wait, 
not forgetting the other, .though close enveloped in all 
the white glory of that region.” 

Richard, dearest, are you dreaming ? 

No ; O, no. Only resting. Robertine, I love your 
hand on mine — your gentle, clinging hand.” 

You should not talk, dear Richard ; only rest.” 

Still the afternoon drifting by and the sunlight 
shrinking to a thin wand in the window-frame. The 
street below grew quieter, she fancied. And tran- 
sient peace loitered over all. 

Robertine.” 


tTNCOMMONLY COMMON. 


53 


^^Well, dear?” 

‘^Lean and kiss me, lest I sleep.” 

She bent her rose-lips to his own. Now rest.” 

She was. weary ; until now she had felt no weari- 
ness. She closed her eyes and let her head droop on 
the chair arm. Perhaps she dozed. . . . She 

knew not how long* a time had elapsed when his voice 
startled her with one word, a clear ring of interroga- 
tion. 

Ah ?” he cried. 

Richard — Richard darling.” 

Then something vague, nameless, seemed to creep 
upwards from her heart and tighten about her 
throat, until she fell forward choking and gasping 
into silence and the shadow of the great calm . 

They came in presently — the doctor and the maid — 
for her mistress. They covered the placid face of 
Richard Ethel, and said it must have come some day. 

Then they lifted her up and drew her gradually 
back to consciousness. 

‘^1 am better,” she said in reply to their questions, 
and looked about her, not flinching, though her gaze 
swept the white drift of the sheeted dead. 

She rose a moment later and walked steadily to the 
old desk, from which she took the manuscript that he 
had left her. Then she turned to the wall and took 
down the coat and the hat he should never wear 
again. These are mine,” she said in a voice more 
pitiful than any sobbing. She sat down, clasping 
them as if her arms encircled something human, and 
bowed her face upon them in tearless, desolate 
fashion. 

The maid came close and touched her shoulder. 

Let me take you home, Madame ; I have brought 
your cloak.” 


54 


DROPS OF BLOOi). 


She lifted her head and gazed upon them with 
hopeless eyes. Presently she began to weep gentle, 
relieving tears. 

^^Take me away/’ she said, should be content 
for him and glad. . . . Take me away; there is 

nothing more.” 

And they led her tenderly from the place. 


ONE WOMAN’S WORK. 

“At her feet he bowed, he fell, 

He lay down ; 

At her feet he bowed, he fell ; 

Where he bowed. 

There he fell down dead !” 

— Song of Deborah and Barak. 

odd name. She is not a Pole?^^ 

The other laughed. Her husband may have been. 
Poor old chap ! He only lived six months.” 

And left her a million ! Fortunate woman. She 
cannot be more than twenty. Zadresky, you said ?” 

Helene Zadresky,” the other answered dreamily. 
They were leaning from the colonnade balcony of 
the quaint old hotel — the Southerner and his visiting 
Northern friend — leaning out into the languid South- 
ern night and listening to street music in the distance. 

^^Masaniello ! Always Masaniello,” said the first 
speaker. ‘^Charming air; but I wonder if that or- 
gan is going to grind all night ? . . . Murchison 

isn’t coming out, evidently. What made you present 
him ?” 

I am just a little sorry,” his friend made answer. 
He is apt to be fascinated ; and the poor fellow has 
enough on his hands already,” 

The electric light hashing up from the street upon 
the young men’s faces — Rodney Clark’s keen, dark 
countenance and Henry Beaman’s languid, yet attrac- 
tive visage — said, most decidedly, of North and of 


56 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


South.’’ The three had been college friends. Rodney 
from the Northern metropolis ; Claj^ Murchison, of 
Georgia, and Henry Beaman from the quaint old 
Crescent City. It was a pleasant reunion, this, of 
theirs, despite the circumstances of the Georgian’s 
hither coming. 

Rodney spoke again, playfully : 

If you say the word. I’ll go in and bring him out 
by main force.” 

Better not try it. You might fall a victim your- 
self.” 

Is she so terrible ?” 

if Terrible ! She is a divine creature.” 

These two, still loitering in the balcony of the old 
hotel ; but, in the parlor Avhich they had so lately 
quitted — what? A group of five, two being ladies. 
Of the latter, one was undoubtedly a chaperone — 
a quiet little thing of middle age, irreproachably cos- 
tumed in violet velvet and satin. The other was — 
Helene Zadresky — an unmistakable brunette, with 
skin like ivory, and lips of pure vermilion; an ex- 
quisite form, willowy, as perfect in outline; a face with 
the long, reposeful features that the great artists love 
to give their saints. She wore black, with a cool, 
drooping and gracious effect — a costume composed 
wholly of lace, it seemed, save for a pointed bodice of 
gleaming jets. She had a trio of crimson roses lean- 
ing from her bosom, and a larger cluster on her fan. 
Her neck and arms shone dazzling above the black- 
ness of her costume. 

Two of the gentlemen were in evening dress ; 
with these the chaperone conversed, while Helene Za- 
dresky turned aside with Murchison. 

The young man’s face was flushed — an almost fever- 
ish light shone in his eyes, as he bent his golden head 


ONE WOMAN^S WORK. 


to look upon her. He was tall and strong, and 
yet the beauty of his countenance was slightly 
womanish. 

But no flush came over the face of Helene Zadresky. 
She smiled serenely at last, and put out her hand. 

^^We must be leaving now,’’ she said. am 

sorry you are not going also. But I will not say 
adieM — only au revoirP^ 

Clay Murchison bowed low, then stood, as if rooted 
to the spot, and watched the little party sweep away. 
Weeks afterwards there came an hour when he could 
hear her voice again : I will not say adieu — only au 
revoir P’ And then the words seemed to burn them- 
selves in upon his brain. 

With her departure all the light and beauty and 
fragrance of the place seemed fled. He turned about 
in a dazed way ; then, by-and-by, bethought himself 
to seek his friends in the balcony. 

At last — ” 

Eodney Clark, about to utter some playful plati- 
tude, was checked by a motion from Beaman, who 
spoke, seriously : 

How do you like Mrs. Zadresky ?” 

Murchison drew a deep breath. 

‘‘She is so beautiful !” he said, in a helpless way. 

Rodney caught him up, disputatiously : 

“ Is she beautiful, or is it your fancy ? Do you not 
merely imagine that she is beautiful ?” 

“She has the face of an angel !” cried the Georgi- 
an, with an impetuosity which silenced the other. 

Neither of the three spoke for some moments. Then 
Murchison recalled, aloud, some subjects the lady had 
mentioned. 

“ She said our name was very familiar — she spoke 
of my grandfather. , . . She was telling me about 


58 


t)E0P8 OF BLOOD. 


her plantation, out in the western part of the State — 
she said ‘the wild-rase hedges were miles long.’’ 

You have made fine headway in one short half- 
hour,” laughed Rodney. 

If you are a good hoy,” Beaman interposed, lan- 
guidly, she will invite you out to visit her. Have 
you permission to call on her here at the hotel ?” 

Murchison answered, a trifle awkwardly : 

‘^Yes.” 

Beaman was the eldest of the three, and far too 
sensible to attempt anything like admonition. 

All right,” he said, carelessly. Only don’t let 
her turn your head. She is about as fascinating a 
woman as lives — at least, in New Orleans. That is 
the reason why I keep away from her myself. We 
are pleasantly acquainted, both living here at the 
hotel, you see, so much of the time — but that is all.” 

Murchison did call upon the lady the following 
afternoon, and was received in her private parlor, 
where a pleasant wood-fire sparkled in the grate. It 
had rained in the night, and there was dampness yet 
in the atmosphere, though sunlight had begun to 
stream in at the old-fashioned windows. 

The duenna, whom he had met the night before, 
arose and retired to an adjoining chamber, of which 
the door stood open wide. But Helene Zadresky 
scarcely stirred from the crimson easy-chair in which 
she reclined. She gave him a cordial smile, however, 
and pointed to a willow rocker. 

You will find that comfortable, I think,” she said. 

I do so wish you had gone with us to the ^ Pickwick’ 
last night ! The reception was a thorough success. I 
thought of you many times.” 

She had thought of him! His heart was beating 
with a strange excitement. He secretly surveyed her 


ONE WOMAN^S WOKK. 


59 


when, at intervals, the long lashes swept the color- 
less cheeks, aftd veiled the midnight eyes. He had 
not been mistaken ; it was an angelic countenance, 
pure, and all unmarred by passion. Even in the 
strong, unsparing sunlight her complexion was still 
perfect. And she was very simply dressed, in «ome 
soft, cream-colored material. 

But he could not sit always silent before her. 

You said our name was a familiar one,’-^ he ven- 
tured. 

‘^Yes.^’ The modulation of her voice was wonder- 
ful. ^^My mother, years ago, knew Mr. Felix Mur- 
chison.” 

My grandfather !” said Clay, as she paused. He 
is long dead.” 

I knew he was dead,” she continued, with serious 
inflection. But I have heard my mother speak of 
him — quite often. He did not always live in Georgia ?” 

He spent but little of his time there,” said Clay. 

^ ‘ Ah ? . . . But you — ^you are a pure product of 

the State ? 

She was smiling again. And he, too, smiled, 
though without reason. 

I suppose so,” he answered. 

And then the^^ began to talk about his home and 
family, and even more about the length of his stay in 
New Orleans. 

When he took his leave. Clay Murchison went di- 
rect to the room of his friend Beaman, with whom he 
was to dine. 

Beaman eyed him steadfastly. 

You look disturbed. Aren’t you well ?” 

Well ! O, yes, perfectly well ; never better,” was 
the answer with a short, hysterical laugh. Only my 
affairs worry me a little.” 


60 DROPS OF BLOOD. 

should think they might/’ said Beaman drily. 

I suppose you have been consoling yourself with La 
Zadresky. Heavens, man ! why turn scarlet ? you 
have a right ; you are not married — yM /” 

^‘Married !” The other gasped once or twice, then 
his rage poured out, a passionate torrent. Nor will 
I ever he — to that girl ! Not if a dozen brothers 
pursue me with shot-guns ! I never have harmed her 
in any way, and she shall not be thrust upon me. I 
don’t love her — I never did. The engagement was 
forced on me — ^ for family reasons ’ to ‘ heal the old 
feud,’ the everlasting accursed feud! Why should I 
be made the victim ? I say again, I will never marry 
Eula Hartley !” 

‘‘Bravo !” said Beaman, in an ordinary tone. “You 
are right, of course, old fellow. But — ^you know, 
you told me, the other night, that you thought 
the brother would track and follow you here. Do you 
think so still ?” 

Murchison answered with an effort : 

“ I still think so.” 

“ That is a pity. . . . But we ought not to spoil 

our appetites with these unpleasant subjects. Let’s 
have something more agreeable. I suppose you will 
see Mrs. Zadresky quite often, now?” 

“To-morrow,” said Murchison, vaguely. “ We. are 
to meet at the Exposition.” 

Beaman cleared his throat, and looked thoughtfully 
out of the window. Had he voiced his thought, 
Murchison would have listened to this prophecy : 

“You are walking straight to your doom my 
friend !” 

But there was only silence in the room, until the 
clock in a neighboring steeple rang out the hour. 

“Straight to your doom !” Might any voice have 


ONE woman’s WOKK. 


61 


whispered this to the young* Georgian that following 
afternoon, as he stood waiting for her in the music-hall 
of the great main building ? He was twenty minutes 
too soon, and so sat down in the last row of seats 
and listened to the concert progressing at the further 
end. A Mexican band was singing — a peculiar song, 
which caught one’s attention in spite of other things. 
A two-part refrain in major thirds, rising and dipping- 
back, and re-rising, rhythmic and melodious. The 
song kept on swinging through his brain even after 
the singers had ceased, and some one else began an 
oration. And so he fell into a curious, palpitating 
sort of a dream, and Avaited for her coming. 

She was punctual. A bell-chime not far off was 
ringing for three o’clock, when a light hand touched 
his shoulder. 

You are here !” her soft voice spoke, she was 
alone. He noted this with a thrill of pleasure. Alone 
and smiling and girlishly light-hearted. A moment 
later and they were sauntering off together. 

Might any secret voice have whispered : To your 
doom ”? 

* si: * Ji« ♦ 

‘^My poor — friend!” It was her voice, sorrowful 
and thrilling. Her voice, and her eyes were turned 
upon him, dark and serious. And, for his part, he sat 
at her side, somewhat dazed and wholly disconsolate. 
They had been sitting there a long time — in the quiet- 
ude and the pleasant light. No one had disturbed 
them from the little bench they had chosen as a seat. 
Only a few had come wandering up and down the 
aisles of the hall, and gazing at the great tables of 
fruit outspread and labelled for inspection. It 
seemed like a great conservatory. The wind came 


62 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


gushing gently through, and now and then were 
audible the low signals of the boats on the river just 
outside the grounds — and sometimes these were 
almost like a song. And he had been telling her his 
troubles. 

^^My poor friend! I am so sorry for you. It is 
hard to tell what one should do in such a case. Per- 
haps, if you should go abroad, things would turn out 
right in time. And yet, I can understand your 
feeling to be driven from home. And to fancy some 
one pursuing constantly ♦ 

♦ ❖ * * ♦ ♦ 

He could not remember afterwards what, if any- 
thing, more she had said, until they had left the park 
and returned to her hotel apartments in the city. 
Then, seated alone with her before the grate in her 
little parlor, for all the nights grew chill as yet, he 
had heard her speak again. 

^‘Next week,^’ she had said, ‘^1 am going — we are 
going, auntie and I — into the country to Bayou 
Grace, to my plantation. Suppose you come with us 
for a fortnight, or longer if you wish. We are always 
glad of company. And perhaps, in the meantime, 
you will see your way out of this affair. At all 
events, your life will be safe — from the brother. He 
will give up his search ; his thirst for vengeance will 
subside. Perhaps the young lady may console herself 
with another. You can take your time about going 
abroad — you need not be driven from the country.’’ 

He looked at her in a stupefied way. Was she 
women or angel ? Did she tempt, or seek to succor ? 

^ Wou cannot be in earnest ?” he faltered. 

^‘Cannot be in earnest?” she repeated, curiously. 

My dear friend, you will trust me yet. You must 


ONE WOMAN^S WORK. 


63 


certainly come with us to Bayou Grace. ... As 
to your marrying the young lady, it is hard to say 
what were right. And yet, is it not Truth against 
Honor ? Swear to love, protect and cherish, and so 
swear to a lie?’’ She became suddenly excited; her 
voice rose high and vibrated strangely. ^‘No, no, 
no ! You must not, you shall not I You shall not be 
a hypocrite !” 

A second later Murchison was on his knees at her 
side, clasping her hand and crying out desperately : 

Helene !” 

hush, hush! Auntie is coming. Be calm. 
We are both excited. I think you’d better go now; 
but come again to-morrow, at three.” 

He was on his feet again. 

Good-night,” he said, tremulously^, and went out. 

Was he awake or dreaming ? Sane or — gone mad ? 
He had knelt, had taken her hand, had called her by 
her given name. And he had known her just three 
days ! Come again, to-morrow 1” she had said. 
What did he care now for his other affairs ? Twenty 
men might be dogging his foot-steps with murderous 
intentions. Death might be looking at him through 
every door and window. She had not rebuked him 
for calling her name. And he was to spend a fort- 
night — or longer — upon her plantation ! Was he 
sane or gone mad ? 

Some of the most enduring of passions have sprung 
from even such beginnings. Love at first sight this 
has been called. 

But Clay Murchison, after a night’s rest — the heavy 
sleep of exhaustion — awakened with calmer notions. 
He knew his fate; to love Helene Zadresky. And 
now he must not shock or wound or insult her by a 
too hasty disclosure of this passion. He must wait 


64 


DBOPS OF BLOOD. 


and win her ultimately. He must be prudent and 
self-contained. When he called that afternoon, the 
chaperone was present and remained. He did not see 
Helene again alone that week. The following Tues- 
day he accompanied them to the country. The night 
before he left town he went to Beaman’s apartments 
to say good-by. Rodne^^ Clark was also there. Nei- 
ther one seemed surprised to know his plans. 

An excellent idea,” said Beaman. I think I 
told you she would ask you out there. ... I sup- 
pose you have not heard from Eula Hartley’s fiery 
relative ? 

I had a letter to-day,” said Murchison, quietly. 

A letter threatening everything. He is stopping 
up at Pass Christian.” 

Very good hotel up there,” said Beaman, for want 
of something better. 

A fortnight of Paradise ! Bodily security, and the 
presence of Helene Zadresky ! Far into the beautiful 
sugar-bowl country, past many a smiling bayou, they 
had journeyed, to find peace. A half-day’s ride by 
rail; a sunset drive in a low barouche through all the 
spring-tide fragrance of the road winding up to a 
rather large drab house built upon a rise of ground, 
with just sufficient shade of oak and cypress — none 
too much. 

A fortnight of Paradise ! Clay Murchison took now 
no heed of time. He only knew that he was no longer 
harassed. The alliance, to escape which he had fled 
from his Georgia home to the Crescent City, and the 
consequences, which had pursued him, incubus-like, 
for many days, were almost forgotten. Hartley 
might be at Pass Christian or New Orleans, or any- 


ONE woman’s work. 


65 


where else. It was of little consequence. He would 
never come to Bayou Grace. And Clay was dream- 
ing* a man’s first, wonderful dream of love, the dream 
which comes hut once in any life. 

These were days of delicious sunlight for two to take 
long drives throughout the pleasant country; these 
were nights of halm and wondrous stars o’erhead. 

Even so he dreamed his dream, until these were the 
words that awakened him — words of a letter sent hy 
Henry Beaman : 

What has happened ? I should think it might he 
safe for you to return hy this. Do you know you 
have spent nearly a month at Bayou Grace ? Or are 
you located permanently^ ?” 

The time had come ; he could delay no longer. And 
somehow the intensity of his passion left no room for 
misgiving. She must love him. The letter was 
brought him at dinner. Afterwards, in the dusk, he 
was telling her about it, as they strolled away from 
the house for one last walk together. 

And you must go to-morrow?” she asked, with a 
faint sigh. 

The question helped him. He answered, tremu- 
lousily : 

Yes, I must go. But we shall meet again, soon. 
Shall we not?” 

They had walked some distance from the house, hut 
they could still see the lights twinkling cheerily 
through the shrubbery. 

think so,” she faltered. I hope so.” 

And now they were standing face to face in the 
shadow of a great live-oak and its heavy moss- 
drapery. 

‘‘No!” he cried, breathlessly. “Do not say you 


66 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


‘ hope so’ ! Say more — say that we shall surely meet ! 
Helene ! Helene ! don’t you see— don’t you see that — 
I love you 

* ❖ ^ ^ 

Well, he had had a taste of heaven. No matter 
what might happen hereafter, he had held her close to 
his heart and kissed her madly, cheek and brow, and 
crimson lips. For that brief space, at least, she had 
been his very own. That was what he had said be- 
tween his kisses : My own ! my own !” 

Now he stood alone in the shadow, for she had fled 
from his arms. But would there not come to-morrow ? 
Had she not lain without resistance in his embrace ? 
What had she answered? Was it not Yes”? and 
had he not won her for ever ? To-morrow ! to-mor- 
row ! Come, to-morrow, swiftly ! . . . . He wan- 

dered aimless!}’' about the grounds ; he was so dazed 
and feverish ! But all would go well. Even though 
she hide from him to-night, her whispered Yes ” was 
certain in his brain — a something which would outlast 
existence. 

When at length he returned to the house, he went 
directly to his chamber. He slept heavily throughout 
the night ; morning was well advanced when he awoke 
and remembered his own joy. 

There was no one in the airy breakfast-room ; he 
drank his coffee quite alone, as he had often done 
before. He ventured then to ask the servant if Mrs. 
Zadresky had gone out anywhere, it being rather late. 
But he could not quite understand the reply. Was the 
woman so utterly stupid?' He was not speaking of 
last night, but of this morning. He knew that her 
mistress had gone out last evening, but where was she 
now, at this hour ? For reply, the servant pointed to 


ONE woman’s work. 


67 


what he had not 3"et observed — a letter sealed and 
addressed to him, which had been placed at his 
plate. He opened it with a trembling* hand. What 
strange sounds were in his ears ? And this was her 
written fareAvell : 

When you read this I shall be on my way to the 
Pacific, and you will never see my face again. You 
have loved me ; let your love now turn to hate. A 
marriage between us is impossible. And yet I could 
have cared for you, for you are lovable in the utmost. 
I am sorry that we have met. Shall I be honest and 
tell you my purpose at the outset ? Revenge ! O ! it 
is a dark word for a woman’s pen, but I will tell the 
truth. Yes, it was revenge upon you — bitter and 
terrible. Would you know the reason? Years ago, 
a man of your name — a man whose blood is in your 
veins — wronged an innocent woman. Bitter and ter- 
rible was her wrong ! — a wrong that turned a sweet 
and guileless . heart to gall ! That woman never 
forgot ! She had a daughter whom she taught the 
name of Felix Murchison, and with his name the word 
revenge ! Born and bred to hatred of your accursed 
name, do you believe I could bring myself to wear it as 
my own, or to link myself to your loathed race ? My 
friend, forget this— folly. For we are best apart. 
And you will love another than Helene.” 

There are some natures, ordinarily impetuous, that 
turn to quietude or apparent calmness when brought 
face to face with great calamity. 

Murchison read the note twice ; then, turning, spoke 
evenly to the servant : 

Your mistress went late last night !” 

About midnight the woman thought. The barouche 
took the ladies to the station. Of course the duenna 
had accompanied Mrs. Zadresky. 

^^Ah !” he said, as if he understood. Then calmly he 
bade her order tlxat same barouche for him to catch 


68 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


the afternoon train back to New Orleans. He re- 
turned to his room and packed his thing’s. All was 
over ! all was over ! His very heart seemed turned to 
stone. She had not loved him. She despised him and 
his l"ace. It had all been a dream — this month at 
Bayou Grace. But the dream had lasted so long that 
to waken was— -to die ! 

O ! God !” he said over and over, ^‘to die V’ 

Late the following evening, Beaman and Rodney 
Clark, chatting in the former’s pleasant hotel apart- 
ment, were stai’tled by a messenger summoning them 
at once to a private lodging house a half-mile distant. 

Come at once ! a friend of yours has shot himself !” 
the message read. 

They looked at each other, and spoke with horrified 
accord : 

^‘Murchison !” 

* * * * ♦ ♦ 

Stone-dead ! And there was nothing to be done but 
read the letter he had left for Henry Beaman — the 
letter of nine words : loved her; but she did not 

love me !” Stone-dead ! with stilled features and a 
look of peace, and only one death-wound seen above 
the heart. 

But some wounds are invisible. 

And even as Beaman read that pitiful last message 
of the dead, there were footsteps and the voice of a 
woman in the hall. He went out suddenly at the 
sound of that voice, and blocked the pathway of 
Helene Zadresky and her chaperone. She stared at 
him with anguished eyes. 

What has happened ?” she cried out, breathlessly. 

What has happened to him ? No one will tell me ! 


ONE WOMAN'S WORK. 


69 


I — I thoug-lit I could go away — and forget him ; but I 
could not I I have come back ; I must see him — 1 
have come so far — to tell him — Why do you stop me 
here ? Is he ill ? I will go to him Her voice was 
strained and high. She struggled to pass. 

Go then!’’ said Beaman mercilessly. ^^Yiew 
your work !” 

But over the threshold of her lover’s room she fell 
senseless. 

:ic 4: 4: ^ 

It is another night in the Crescent City. 

Beaman and Rodnej^ Clark are lingering in the col- 
onnade of the old hotel. It is a full month since Mur- 
chison died. They are speaking of Helene Zadresky. 

‘‘1 pitied her a little,” Clark says, in a thoughtful 
tone. 

‘^Did you?” says Beaman. ‘‘I can scarcely say 
the same. Poor Murchison is not the only one who 
has come to grief through love of her. But to me, 
apart from his being my friend, the circumstances in 
his case were peculiarly aggravating. . . . Some- 

how, I can’t help but liken her to that woman in the 
Old Testament. What was her name ? The^one that 
shielded Sisera ? He asked for water and she gave 
him milk ; then she put a spike through his head. 
. . . Curious, wasn’t it?” 

I remember,” says Rodney, very slowly. Her 
name was Jael. . . . But there is no record, I be- 

lieve, of Jael’s repenting.” 


PEACE ELLITHORPE 


The sunset light lingering on the river by the 
boat-house and upon the greenness of the shore 
be^'ond, had deepened into the dull i^urple of twilight ; 
and now the moon, rising over the shadows of the 
bluffs, had flung a golden bridge across the wide, 
smooth waters. Mid-stream, one boat swung softly 
to the dip of oars and the song of the rowers, who 
were moved, perchance, with an impulse to round the 
completeness of the mid-summer night. 

Peace Ellithorpe and Louis Gordon, standing in the 
shadow of the boat-house, listened intently for a time. 

^^How sweet the girl said presently. 

Gordon’s gaze was fixed upon her pale face. He 
sought to read the meaning in her deep, dark eyes. 

' The Soldier’s Farewell,’ ” he answered. It is 
always beautiful.” His thoughts, nevertheless, 
might have been more of the beauty of her counten- 
ance — there, Avhere the moonlight crept upon the 
darkness as a timid lady to her lord. 

And now he had stepped down into a boat, and was 
reaching up his hand to assist her. 

^^All right?” he asked. And when she had an- 
swered half gayly, he pulled away from the landing 
out into the stillness and delight of the waters. 

am so glad to have you back,” he said by and 
by. It has seemed a year since 3"ou went.” 


PEACE ELLITHORPE. 71 

am glad you missed me,’’ she responded. Yet 
it was only a month.” 

‘‘And passed rapidly with you, no doubt, among 
scenes of gayet 3 ^” He spoke in a jealous tone. 

“I have not said so,” she answered. “There was 
much to occupy, much to amuse me ; nothing to com- 
pensate for our separation.” 

There was no coquetry here. Not once in all the 
six months of their engagement had she hesitated to 
speak the truth concerning her regard for him. 

“ 0, well,” he said, as if half-ashamed, “You must 
expect one to be ill-natured when he has to stay at 
home and let his sweetheart go thousands of miles 
away from him. But now you are back, you must 
tell me everything you saw, every place you visited.” 

“ As if I had not already done so in my letters.” 

“ In a general way, you did. I would like particu- 
lars.” 

“ Where shall I begin ? The Springs, or the 
country? I spent two weeks at Saratoga, and one at 
the seaside, you know ; then did a seven days’ 
penance at Brockton. O, such a dull place, Louis ! 
Not a thing to see, not a place to go, except — you’ll 
laugh when I tell you — except the State reforma- 
tory.” 

She paused, for he had suddenly let go the oars. 
He bent again in a moment, and taking firmer hold of 
them, began to pull very hard against the current. 

“ What is the matter, Louis !” 

He answered breathlessly, after his exertions. 

“Nothing. We — were getting too far down 
stream. Go on. Peace ; you were saying that you 
visited the State reformatory.” 

“Yes, it was very interesting. Were ^mu ever 
there?” 


72 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


Gordon laughed faintly. 

"'Was I ever there? O, yes; I was there once. 
Well, how did it strike you ?” 

" I don’t know what you are laughing at/’ she 
said ; " and I don’t believe you were there either, so 
I’ll tell you all about it, for really I liked it very 
much— liked the idea, you know. In the first place, it 
is built upon a hill, and the entire grounds are sur- 
rounded with a brick wall.” 

"In the shape of a square,” suggested Gordon, 
" with a sentry tower at each corner, with a loaded 
gun and instructions to shoot down any one caught 
trying to escape.” 

"Exactly,” said Peace, with some animation. " So 
you have been there, and you know all about the 
workshops, the clean corridors, the grades, and the 
night school. There is one illuminated text upon the 
chapel wall, which I think most beautiful : " Look not 
unmercifully upon the past.’ ” 

Gordon repeated it after her, with a sigh. 

"But it is impossible not to,” he said wearily. 

"Impossible not to look unmercifully? Why do 
you say that ? Why, nearly all the prisoners were 
boys, mere bo^^s, placed there for sopie trifling 
offense instead of being thrown into prison among old, 
hardened criminals.” 

"There isn’t much difference,” he said, moodily. 
" Once you deprive a man or boy of his liberty, for 
any fault committed — ” He broke off suddenly, 
and cried, " Pshaw ! Why are you talking of such 
things?” 

But she was not ready to abandon the subject. 

"You speak as if you did not believe in reforma- 
tion.” 

" Do you ?” he asked quietly. 


PEACE ELLiTHORPE. 


To be sure I do ; I believe it most effectual.” 

''Wait a little,” said Gordon. "You couldn’t 
think as much of an^^ one who had been an inmate of 
such an institution, even for the sliortest time, as you 
could of one who had never broken the law in any 
way, could 3"ou ?” 

"That would depend on his after-conduct,” she 
answered promptly. " If he were disposed to do right 
in every respect, no look or word of mine should recall 
the past.” 

" I would like to see you put to the test in this,” he 
said incredulously. 

"I would like to know some one who had broken 
the law and made atonement, and who wanted to 
forget it and live aright henceforward. I would like 
to be a stanch friend to such a one.” 

Gordon began to row very hard again, and so was 
unable to respond for some minutes. 

" I once had a friend,” he said, speaking very slowly, 
"who was sent to that same reformatory — nearly 
eight years ago. He — he forged the name of a distant 
relative.” 

" Tell me about it,” she said with evident interest. 
" I suppose he was young and didn’t realize.” 

" Yes ; he was quite young. He was in the employ 
of this relative — a second cousin — and had been per- 
fectly honest and faithful until that moment. Even 
then, he had no interest in being dishonest, for he 
meant to restore the money within twenty- four hours. 
It was a matter of pride and extravagant companions. 
He fully intended to restore the money, and only did 
it to get out of a boy’s scrape. But — it was dis- 
covered. His relative might have saved him but did 
not. After all the three years the boy had served him 
honestly, that cousin — prosecuted him. . . . The 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


u 

boy was sent to the institution you visited. Perhaps 
you remember the rules. He was perfect in behavior 
for six months, Avhich put him on parole another half 
year, and then gave him his freedom. He left the 
State immediately, and nobody who knows him now, 
has the faintest suspicion of the secret he carries — 
nobody but myself. Nut even the young lady he is to 
many.’’ 

^‘He has not told her?” cried Peace, in a startled 
voice. O, how wrong! and how foolish! If she 
should find it out by and by it would be worse than if 
he himself had told her. Indeed, he ought to tell her, 
for she, if she loves him, will be the very one to sym- 
pathize and help him forget it. Louis, you must urge 
him to tell her.” 

I do not know about that.” 

^‘But you must dear. Promise me, the next time 
you see him, to suggest it.” 

I dare not. Peace. I might be the means of wreck- 
ing his happiness eternally. No don’t ask me. Let 
us talk of something else.” 

But I cannot think of anything else until you have 
promised me.” 

^ ‘ I will promise to ask him to think about it,” he 
said reluctantly. 

Very well, dear. Because if she loves him, it will 
certainly make no difference in her feelings for him. 
Let me see ; you say he was perfect in conduct. Then 
he was of the first grade, and wore gray. How dis- 
tinctly I remember seeing them all at work. In the 
foundry building they were almost all third grade 
men, in red uniform, a lovely shade of red, too, a rich 
cardinal. I remember the light from the molten iron 
shining upon the workers, and making the color the^^ 


PEACE ELLITHORPE. *75 

wore even handsomer. Well, well, Louis, you are not 
vexed with me, are you ?” 

^Wexed?’’ 

You seem so silent, dear.” 

He let the oars rest, and leaning forward, drew her 
face close to his own. 

I am so glad to be with you again,” he whispered. 

So glad ! I have missed you so much !” 

The boat drifted as he held her thus — drifted placid- 
ly. They could hear the other rowers singing sweetly 
once again : 

“Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the Western sea.” 

She leaned her head upon his shoulder. How near 
she was ! How dear she was ! He could hear her 
heart beat, and feel her pure breath upon his cheek. 
Her knotted hair had loosened, and the red-gold rings 
were shining in the moonlight upon her dark, plain 
dress. 

And still he held her closely, and they drifted. 

“ Why do you sigh, Louis ?” 

^^If I should lose you,” he said, gloomily, ‘Svhat 
would my life be worth?” 

"‘Do not think of such things. You will not lose 
me, dear.” 

“I must not. Peace.” 

Again the refrain of the singers came swelling 
across the still waters : 

“ Wind of the Western sea.” 

And again Gordon sighed. 

“You love me, don’t you, dear?” 

“ What a strange tone for that question, Louis ! A 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


^6 

tone of doubt. Why, I could no more doubt you than 
doubt the stars in heaven !” 

^‘You — you have perfect confidence in me, dear?^’ 

‘‘Perfect.” 

“ And you will always love me, come what may ?” 

“Alwa^^s, Louis.” 

“ You — you want me to have no secrets from you, 
Peace ?” 

“None whatever.” 

“No, no,” he said hastily, “and you are right, 
dearest.” 

They sat apart again, and he pulled steadily at the 
oars. 

“ That friend of yours, Louis,” she said, presently, 
“ of whom you were telling me. I suppose they put 
liim at work of some sort ?” 

Gordon answered slowly : “ He kept books in the 

office. He was considered a good bookkeeper.” 

“ That was not bad. Would you — would you mind 
telling me where he is now, and what he is doing ? 
You say he is to be married soon ? 

“He is in this State,” said Gordon. “He has a 
good business, fair prospects, and is engaged to a 
beautiful girl, whom he worships. He has been very 
happy of late.” 

It was her turn now to sigh, not wearily, but as if 
his words gave her some vague satisfaction. Happy 
herself, she would fain have all the world at peace. 

They were out a half hour longer — a half hour sweet 
with lovers’ whispered hopes and confidences ! Then 
slowly he turned the boat shoreward. 

The singers were repeating the “ Soldier’s Farewell” 
with more perfect harmony than before. 


‘^Good-night ; farewell, my own true love I’ 


PEACE ELLITHOKPE. 77 

The words came floating' across, distinct and sweet, 
as Gordon steadied the boat and assisted his sweet- 
lieart to the landing. 

They strolled off leisurely then along the sandy shore 
and on toward the road. 

It was not yet late when they had reached her 
home, and they sat awhile in the broad porch. 

But Gordon seemed ill at ease, and this she was 
quick to discern. 

You have some worriment,” she said, softly. 

You think so ?” His tone was evasive. 

I am sure of it. Will you not tell me 

^Gt is nothing,” he said, breathing hard for a mo- 
ment. ‘‘Nothing — only you required a promise of me 
this evening, and I — I hardly know how to keep it.” 

“ What was that?”' she asked, wonderingly. 

“You asked me to urge my friend to — to acquaint 
the woman he loves with the fact that he lias broken 
the law during his life.” He spoke constrainedly. 

“You think he would fear to do so ?” 

“ I know it,” he said in a voice of pain. 

“But,” she said, argumentatively, “I am sure I 
know women better than you do ; and I am confident 
it would be the best thing possible. Besides, the 
woman who would allow it to make a difference would 
be unworthy of his love or friendship.” 

“You mean what you say?” he asked, rather 
breathlessly. 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ And you would not change, if — if you were she ?” 

“ I should only think the more of him for having 
trusted me.” 

Gordon was silent for a moment. Then he made a 
movement to put his hand in an inner pocket of his 
coat, 


'8 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


— I have his picture here,” he said, with some 
effort. I will show it to you.” 

He drew the small card portrait forth, and slowly 
reached it to her. Then he turned away his face and 
was silent. 

‘‘O,” she said, half laughing*, ^^you have made a 
mistake, dear. You have given me you7's instead of 
his.” 

Gordon had risen to his feet. She did not under- 
stand. Need he explain ? It was not too late. Not 
too late. Need he go farther ? — there was ^^et escape. 

He stood so, without uttering a word. Perhaps it 
was but a moment’s space. Yet to him it seemed an 
age. An age ! And a struggle was going on in his 
heart. A terrible struggle. His brain whirled fairl}^, 
and strange lights danced before his eyes. He heard 
her last light words mocking him ; You have given 
me yours instead of his. You have made a mistake !” 

It was not too late. And some demon w^as tempting 
him. 

Suddenly the lights ceased to dance before his eyes ; 
the roaring sound was quiet in his ears. He was him- 
self once more, and calm as the dead. 

I have made ” — he faltered somewhat nevertheless. 
‘^I have made— no — mistake. I gave you — his pic- 
ture.” 

He dared not look at her. 

She gave a cry as if he had struck and almost 
stunned her. 

You ! You ! O Louis !” 

Her voice vras faint and horror-sickened. 

‘^I knew it!” he cried. ^‘1 knew it. I release 
you !” 

And, turning, he rushed away down the path and 
out at the gate. 


PEACE ELLITHORPE. 


79 


She watched him go ; she did not recall him, but 
stood silent in the moonlight; and the vine shadows 
crept slowly about her feet. 

Heavens she said, shuddering. How — how 
things come home to one, at times ! How easy it is to 
talk! . . . How he shocked me 1” . . . 

She stood there still ; she had not moved since he left 
her. The wind was sighing softly among the fragrant 
vines. The moonlight looked more beautiful than 
ever. 

After a long time she stirred a little, and found that 
she was weepiug without her own consent. Weeping 
softly ! and saying something over and over to herself 
with passionate delight : 

How brave he was ! How brave he was !” 

And now she started, and, hurrying down to the 
gate, looked eagerly to see if he w^ere not return- 
ing. 

Even she went into the road, in the direction she 
knew he must haA'C gone. She went down the road to 
the first turn, and into the other street. Could she 
not find him ! Was she to look always in vain ? Must 
she wait until to-morrow ? 

She'turned to go back, and had reached the corner, 
when some one stood before her. 

Peace 

It was his voice^ husk}^ with agitation. 

Louis ! I have been looking everywhere for you,’’ 
she cried, with infinite relief. I thought — I was sure 
— you wouldn’t go without bidding me good-night.” 

And you — understand ?” 

She laid both hands upon his shoulders ; she had 
recovered her serenity, and could look up tenderly 
with her soft eyes yet moist. understand,” she 
said, gently . And now suppose we agree to for- 


80 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


g*et all that. We have so much happiness to consider, 
present and future, we have no time for g-loom.” 

He drew her face upon his breast ; for the moment 
he was weak as ever woman. Perhaps she heard him 
sob. darling!” he said, brokenly; ^^my faith- 

ful darling*.” 



OUT OF THE WORLD, 


All the girls — and there were no less than seven em- 
ployed in the office — were perched from 8 in the morn- 
ing till 6 in the afternoon upon high stools, without 
a shadow of respite for their weary heads or aching 
shoulders. Seven young women there were to make 
hills, write indorsements, enter memoranda, make 
totals in great books heavier than they could lift, 
copy important documents, write letters froni dicta- 
tion, and stand in awe of the whiskered manager ; nor 
dared they ever to leave their stools until the longest 
clock-hand touched the central line above the 12, and 
the hour was certain. At the close of each Saturday 
they were glad to hop down and draw their dollars, 
four, five, six, or, mirabile dictu, six-and-a-half, as 
luck and experience might have availed them. As a 
rule they were pale, attenuated creatures, with thin 
faces, and a fearful sort of eagerness not to make mis- 
takes. The manager had once discharged a girl upon 
her first error. An exception to the rule was she who 
sat in the corner of the room, having thus the favor of 
the wall against which to lean at intervals. A dark- 
complexioned girl, with a bold, bright beauty that 
seemed to glow against the brownness of the back- 
ground like the fire of a crimson rose. A pink health - 
sweetness w^s in her handsome face, the curve of ripe 


82 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


perfection at her lips. She seemed to thrive upon the 
hardship of labor. A girl who could accomplish as 
much work as any two of the others ; who could look the 
manager in the eyes without a tremor and answer him 
unfalteringly. A comparative newcomer, having not 
yet completed her first month, she demanded as much 
salary as was paid to the young women who had 
made out the firm’s bills for 365 days and more, and 
would probably go on in its service till gray and 
toothless. When one who had worked longer and re- 
ceived a dollar less a week, remonstrated faintly, she 
was silenced by the whiskered ogre : 

^‘Miss Berry is Al,” he said. ^‘If you’re not satis- 
fied you can go.” 

Thus it would scarce have availed her co-workers 
to have shown jealousy of Pauline Berry, whom in 
their secret hearts they admired for not cowering* be- 
fore the tyranny of the place. They knew little about 
her ; they faintl}^ suspected that a mother and sister 
depended on her weekly stipend. They acknowledged 
her beauty, and also that she never shirked. They 
dared not consider whether or no the manager favored 
her ; that pompous individual was a never-ceasing 
source of terror to their nervous souls. 

The days were gradually lengthening; the gas was 
lighted less early upon their desks ; they were not as 
fearful at going home. 

Gratz, the manager, went close to the corner desk 
one morning. He Avas a short man, and as Pauline 
looked upon him she thought how easily she could 
smear his face with ink and wipe her pen upon his 
whiskers. For she, too, hated him. 

^^Miss Berr^^,” he said, I want you to stay to- 
night and do some extra work. Of course we’ll make 
it all right.” 


OUT OF THE WORLD. 


83 


How late would 1 have to stay ?” 

All the evening*. I’ll see you to supper and to the 
cars Avhen you go home.” 

She drew a wheel-pattern with her pen upon the 
blotter. 

can’t stay, Mr. Gratz; I don’t feel well to-day. 
Perhaps Miss Foster can.” 

He turned away without a word and went back to 
his low desk and easy chair. 

At 12 Pauline went to lunch with Jeannette Foster, 
wiio was fairly trembling. 

How did you dare to refuse, Miss Berry? I’m so 
glad he didn’t ask me, I’d never have had the 
courage. Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your place ?” 

Afraid? No,” said the other with the hard scorn 
that so easily slips over into coarseness. ^^Why 
should I be afraid of that thing ?” 

What filing’?” 

^^That ^ thing’ Gratz !” 

‘^I wish I was as independent as you,” said Jean- 
nette, admiringly. And all the afternoon she noticed 
how kind the manager was — to Miss Berry. I am 
sorry you are not feeling well,” he said to Pauline. 

You’d better go home early.” 

Thank you,” said Pauline, impassively, but she 
worked until 5. As she was going out the door she 
was met by a tall lady, who regarded her with sting- 
ing malevolence. It was Gratz’s wife, elegantly 
dressed, and arriving unexpectedly, as usual. This 
lady sat down b}^ her husband and spoke so that the 
clerks could hear her. 

How coarse that Berry girl is ! Why does she 
get off earlier than the rest ?” 

^‘Sick,” said the manager gruffly. ^‘Will you 
wait until I’m ready to go home ?” 


84 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


course.'’ And she sat there, looking out for 
the most part into the dusk that fell upon the city. 

^^Are you feeling better?” Gratz inquired of 
Pauline the following morning. 

Yes, sir.” 

Will you be able to stay to-night?” 

She looked past him in the sun-light on the farther 
wall. She spoke deliberately at length : 

Mr. Gratz, I don’t like to work nights. I never 
have done it and never want to. I wish you wouldn’t 
ask me.” 

He shut his teeth with a grating sound. 

But,” he reasoned presently, it’s got to be done 
and I prefer you to do it. I’ll have to help you, and 
we want it perfectl^^ quiet so as not to make mistakes. 
Honestly” — he droj)ped his voice — hate to trust 
any one else; the girls are so careless. You shall be 
paid for your time.” You ought to oblige me.” 

‘^Mr. Gratz, are you at leisure?” asked a gentle- 
man, framing his face in the little window of the 
compartment that fenced off the private office. And 
he turned away. 

Jeannette Foster, the timid girl, leaned over as if to 
ask a question, and whispered, ^^Miss Berry, for 
pity’s sake don’t make him angry ! Some of us will 
lose our places.” 

I, perhaps,” said Pauline, audibly defiant. 

Gratz had put on his coat and hat, and turned to 
the girl who sat nearest the door. 

Miss Gerrity, if any one comes. I’ll be back very 
soon.” Then he went out. 

A sigh of relief passed from lip to lip, pens were 
dropped from cramped fingers, and weaiy arms out- 
stretched ; a breathing season intervened. 

Going to stay ?” asked the timid Jeannette. 


OUT OP THE WORLD. 


85 


‘‘1 don't know/’ said Pauline impatiently, and re- 
sumed her work. At noon she went away herself, 
instead of with her friend, who therefore decided to 
lunch with Miss Gerrity at an adjacent dairy. 

I was so afraid he’d get angry at all of us,” Jean- 
nette said. 

Miss Gerrity was eating rice with milk and a dough- 
nut. 

I could tell that his teeth were shut pretty tight, 
the way he spoke,” she responded. Do yon suppose 
Berry will stay to-night ?” 

don’t believe she will. Think he’ll discharge 

her ?” 

O, no, not her.” 

‘‘ What do you mean ?” 

‘‘ Mash !” The coarse brevity was all sufficient. 

O/’ cried the timid Foster, sighing as if over- 
whelmed. But he’s a — married man !” 

He’s a bea^t !” 

They ate in silence awhile ; then Jeannette resumed : 

Don’t you think she’s handsome ?” 

Berry? Yes, I do. Her arms are just lovely. 
I’d give anything to trade off my skinny wrists for 
such as hers. And poor Miss Gerrity straightened 
her own bent shoulders, aud tugged at her sleeves to 
make them longer. Mrs. Gratz said an awful mean 
thing last night. Did you hear her ?” 

‘‘Who could help hearing? She must surely be 
jealous of him.” 

“ She’s probably had cause long before this. Poor 
Berry ! She’s in hard luck !” 

“Is it true that her mother’s a widow with five 
small children, and that her father died before she was 
born?” 

“ Nah !” — disgustedly. 


“ Her mother’s married 


86 DROPS OP BLOOD. 

again to a man younger than herself — a perfect fool 
that can’t earn his salt. There are two little children, 
mere babies ; and then Pauline has a whole sister 
about seventeen. Pauline’s about twenty herself. 
And she just has to support the whole lot. I 
wouldn’t mind the mother and sister, but when it 
came to a stepfather and his brats, I’d kick.” 

The girl’s phraseology was inelegant, her manner 
loud ; but she was honest and outspoken. Besides, 
where would one of her class acquire elegance of 
thought or speech ! With her nose to the office grind- 
stone from 8 to 6 each day, her evening recreation the 
happenings of a second-rate boarding house — Sundays 
for sleep and sewing on buttons. I repeat, where 
would one of her class acquire elegance ? 

So would I, ” Jeannette responded. As for Pauline 
she had taken no food, but a brisk walk in the wind, 
which was keen and strengthening. She seemed to 
realize some strange approach — of danger mayhap. 
She loathed the office and all its belongings. 

^^If it wasn’t for Carrie!” she said to herself, 
would never go back. I wouldn’t care for Benson or 
his children. He shouldn’t have married my mother 
if he couldn’t support her. If it wasn’t for Carrie I 
wouldn’t care what happened. The rest might go to 
the poorhouse. But Carrie shall not suffer !” 

She returned to the office and found that none of 
the girls were there. Gratz sat writing at his desk. 
He looked up with a pleasant smile. You are back 
early,” he said, and went on writing. 

Pauline climbed wearily upon her stool and began 
to assort her papers. She had dipped her pen into 
the copying ink and made a few strokes vhen the 
manager arose and came over to her desk. 

^^I’ve been looking over the work I was talking 


OUT OF THE WORLD. 


87 

about/’ he said ^^and there isn’t as much as I thought. 
I believe we could easily do it in an hour or two. 
Then you could get home by 9 or half-past. Really, 
Miss Pauline, it would be an accommodation.” 

She did not raise her head or loosen her hold upon 
the pen. 

I will stay if you wish,” she said listlessly, 
shall be much obliged. Miss Gerrity goes your 
way. Couldn’t you send your mother word by her 
why you’re dela^^ed ?” 

I suppose so.” 

And at 6 the requisite message was dispatched. 

When the six girls were gone Gratz turned and 
spoke to Pauline : 

‘‘We’d better go at once to supper.” 

“I’d prefer to stay here, if you please, Mr. Gratz, 
while you are gone. I am not hungry ; besides, 
mother will save my supper.” It was a brave false- 
hood ; she had taken nothing since early morning, and 
then very little. She was really faint. 

“ 0, that’s folly,” he said, as if annoyed. “I can’t 
afford to let you make yourself sick. You must do as 
I say.” 

“ But I prefer to stay,” said Pauline, a deeper flush 
upon her cheeks, an angry -parkle in her eyes. 

“ Very well ; I’ll bring you a bite of something from 
the dairy,” and he went out. 

“How I hate him!” she cried with a shudder. 
“He never harmed me, and yet howl hate and de- 
spise him ! I feel to-night as if some great trouble 
was coming. It isn’t a new feeling either. It’s been 
dogging me for weeks, weeks I There isn’t any escape, 
I’m afraid — not any escape. I don’t know what it is, 
either, unless disgrace and death. The evil one has 
been reaching for me a long time, I believe, to drag 


88 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


me and all that belongs to me to himself. . . , 

Bah I What am I saying ? Am I crazy or dream- 
ing— ” 

Gratz re-entered with a Charlotte russe and some 
other trifles. 

^^It’s a great mistake to go past one’s meal-time/’ 
he said, a great mistake, sure to cause dyspep- 
sia.” 

Pauline humored him by tasting the food. 

“ I’m ready to begin work,” she suggested. 

‘‘I’ll pull down the curtains first,” he said, “It’s 
unpleasant to be looked at from the streets. You sit 
here at my desk in my chair, and I’ll get another 
one,” 

It seemed to her he was a long time fumbling among 
the papers. She leaned forward to see a little easier 
and then drew back again. A chill of horror came 
upon her ; she felt his arm upon her chair. She start- 
ed as if to rise. “ I believe I could work better at my 
own desk or at Miss Foster’s. 

“O, nonsense,” he replied. 

Something seemed choking her. He leaned too near. 
She could no longer endure such terror ; she wdieeled 
about to elude his touch. He threw his arm about 
her, and seized her hand. 

Her fine physique availed her. She tore herself 
from the chair and his foul presence. 

“ Have you — been drinking?” she panted. “What 
do you mean ?” 

“Don’t act so silly, Pauline. I meant no harm.” 

She sprang across the room and took her things, 
then made for the door ; but he stood before her. 

“Not so fast, not so fast. You’re not going j^et.” 

She shook in every fibre of her beautiful figure. 

“Out of my way, or I will kill you !” 


OUT OF THE WORLD. 


89 


^‘0, no, you won’t. Don’t be so foolish, Pauline. I 
haven’t hurt you.” 

Out of my way — ” 

The door was flung* open ; Gratz’s wife stood glar- 
ing upon them with white, vindictive rage too vast for 
words. 

^‘What does this mean?” sire presently hissed at 
her husband. This is the way you go out of town ! 
You stay here with this — hussy !” 

Had she stood a foot nearer Pauline would have 
leaped upon her and choked her. As it was she only 
clenched her hands and spoke deliberately : 

‘‘Madam. I wish you joy of your husband. He 
trapped me into staying here for extra work ; the 
other clerks will testify to this. He is a scoundrel, 
and if I were a man he should not live till morning” 
— her voice broke ; she opened the door, and went out 
into the darkness. Gratz flung an oath after her, as 
a bo 3 ^ flings a stone after the wagon from which the 
owner has whipped him. A strange relief was momen- 
tarily her own ; like balm came the thought that she 
need never return to this hateful place. 

But there were other thoughts. There was Carrie 
— and there was starvation. Work was so hard to 
And ; women’s wages so beggarly ! She would have 
no recommendation ; she must begin again, and with 
this shameful cloud upon her. Should it be known, 
she realized how the world would judge her, with the 
jealous wife’s assistance. She had said the other 
clerks would testify, but to imagine this was sheerest 
folly. They would not dare. O, why, why had she 
not obeyed the promptings of her heart ? Why had 
she put herself in the power of villany ? 

“If it wasn’t for Carrie” she sobbed as she fled 
along the gloomy street — fled she knew not where. It 


DtlOPS OF BLOOD. 


So 

had been her dream to set her sister forward, to edu- 
cate azid shield her, to keep her so pure, so lovely, 
that perhaps some day great happiness might come to 
both. She had no thought of other friend or lover 
than her sister. Love had come shadow-like long 
months before — love and death. She could love no 
other man. There was no twice for her. She had the 
utmost contempt for her mother’s second alliance. 

If it wasn’t for Carrie ?” Still the bitter cry rose 
up from her aching heart. She would have liked to 
die. What was death anyway? How? Where? 
The lake, perhaps. Many and many a time she had 
seen the, blue wagon of the patrol going down the 
avenue and out across the park to bear away the dead, 
tossed up by the fickle heart of the waters, when they 
had grown loveless. She had seen such ghastly bur- 
dens lifted and borne away. 

No, No ! She would not sink to this. She must go 
and tell her story. 

At least Carrie could sympathize — perhaps her 
mother might also, if the children were not crying too 
loudly. Scarcel^^ she knew where she had run in her 
wildness. The car bells were out of tune, the lights 
were unfamiliar. She was weak and staggered. A 
passing policeman regarded her severely, and saw her 
put her hand to her side. He came up close to see if 
she were sober. 

What is the matter ?” 

^^I’ve walked too fast; I was excited. I’m not on 
the right street. Which way is north ?” 

He pointed the direction. 

“You’d better take a car or go slower,” he sug- 
gested. 

She hurried away from him and came at last upon 


OUT OF THE WORLD. 


91 


a street she knew. She ran on and on, and finally 
np the rise of pavement toward the bridge. 

She was calmer now ; why despair so utterly ? 

God forgive me for my wicked thoughts she 
prayed breathlessly, and only longed to get home and 
tell her story. She had no other thought. She did 
not pause to note the red light moving slowly from 
right to left out over the river. She never dreamed 
the bridge was open. And she was running very 
fast ! 

:)« Hi 4: 

Ah God ! Ah God ! That woman’s eyes should be 
so scalded out, and woman’s heart be rent with agony ! 
She told her story well, in silence in the darkened 
little chamber where the^^ laid her on the morrow, still 
dripping with the river water, and where Carrie’s sobs 
might not awaken the sleeping children. 

‘‘My Pauline! My poor, brave, struggling Pau- 
line ! How can I give you up ? Mother has her hus- 
band and her children ; I had only you. Pauline, 
Pauline, how can I give you up?” 


A TALKATIVE MAN 


Wound up/’ said Burhance. You mig*ht as well 
put away your banjo, Dick. When Clag*git gets 
a-going on those pet theories of his, there’s no stopping 
him.” 

They were three old friends ; and Chester Claggit 
was voluble. He was the eldest, a man of forty per- 
haps. The others were midway in the thirties. 
George Burhance was a lively young journalist. Dick 
Phillips a patent lawyer. They were sitting in 
Phillips’ apartment, a bachelor suite of two pleasant 
rooms at the Arlington. Phillips had lived there two 
years and clung to the place like a cat. But then the 
Arlington was a beautiful little paradise of white paint 
and old-fashioned Brussels carpets. In respect to 
cleanliness and good management it was unequaled or 
at least unsurpassed by any other hotel in all the great 
city. The walls were low and the windows had an 
old-fashioned, green-shuttered, home-like appearance. 

Mr. Phillips’ suite looked out upon the cheerful 
avenue and the handsome theatre across the way, and 
was all in all the cosiest place in the world for over- 
grown bachelor friends to congregate — especially at 
early twilight, which hour it happened to be of the 
day in question. 

Phillips did not put away his banjo as admonished 


A TALKATIVE MAN. 


93 


by his journalistic friend. He still held it fondly in his 
arms and thrummed at intervals, regarding* the talk- 
ative man with an amused and expectant expression. 

Claggit was a good talker, a little given to repeti- 
tion when wishing to strengthen certain phrases, but 
on the whole logical and willing to be convinced. He 
ran on a little faster now and carried more and more a 
cheery nonchalance. 

I tell you,’’ he said, you’ll find out that I’m right. 
You’ll find it out, fellows, before you die. I can sum 
it all up in these words : ^ Religion’s emotion ; love’s 
habit!’ That’s all there is to it. Why I thought 
once there was such a thing as love. I’ve gotten over 
it though.” He paused and ran his hand through his 
hair, which was longish and streaked with gray. He 
was a refined looking man, with features bordering on 
the classic and a handsome hand and foot. 

‘‘By the way,” said Burhance lightly, “what ever 
became of your — of Mrs. Claggit ?” 

The talker shook his head and laughed easily. If it 
were counterfeit merriment the work was well executed. 

“ O, she did as she wanted. Went on the plat- 
form. Didn’t you know about it ?” 

“Heard something indefinite,” said Burhance. 
“ Give us the facts, old fellow, if you don’t mind- 
And jmu don’t seem to, you know. Got all over the — 
habit as you call it.” 

“ Long since — long since,” said Claggit, hastily. 

Dick Phillips continued to thrum his banjo as a sort 
of theatrical accompaniment. 

Claggit took a turn or two up and down the room, 
then seated himself in a rocking chair (the chairs were 
all of that description to suit the occupant of the place) 
and tossed his hands above his head, resting them 
behind his neck on the top of the rocker. 


94 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Begin at the beginning/^ said Bui*liance, smartly. 

Give us the courtship.’’ 

Phillips now interposed a soft voice. 

O, I say, George ! That’s going pretty far.” 

O, I don’t mind at all,” said Claggit suddenly 
and beginning to rock the chair he sat in ; I don’t 
mind at all. There’s nothing unpleasant in the notion. 
I’ll sketch in the chief points anyway. To begin, I 
was twenty-eight when I first met Mary Alstrup. I 
was greatly attracted by her handsome face and form. 
She had a bright mind and could say things cleverly — 
in short, she was a woman of superior intelligence and 
of unusual spirit. I liked her ; I think she liked me. 
We became good friends.” 

He paused and rocked a little faster. Dick Phillips 
was picking ” an air from The Masco tte.” George 
Burhance* was lighting a cigarette. The room was 
gradually growing dim with the twilight. 

^The old, old story,’ ” said Burhance. 

Claggit started up again. 

We used to argue a great deal, Mary and I. It 
was what I liked, too. It stimulated the wits, I 
thought. She was very ready to be convinced if in 
the wrong and always graceful in her admissions of 

the same Well — now, mark you — I got so 

in the habit of discussing and comparing notes with 
her that I couldn’t stay away from her — I really 
couldn’t. I wanted her opinion on all matters of im- 
portance ; I liked to view trifles in her company. . . 
It came about in this way: Her father was dead. 
There was only herself, a sister and the mother The 
sister was studying music. The mother concluded to 
go abroad Avith both daughters. When I heard this 
it gaA^e me a strange pang. I felt as if I should be 
lost. We could correspond, Mary and I, but it takes 


A TALKATIVE MAN. 


95 


a long while to get a letter across and subjects grow 
stale and cold in the meantime. I didn’t know quite 
what to do. Mrs. Alstrup was making all her prepa- 
1‘ations and the girls were full of enthusiasm. Mary, I 
rather fancied, was just a little less so than her sister. 
As the days passed I began to feel more and more 
uneasy at the thought of giving up indefinitely all the 
pleasure I had discovered in the young lady’s society. 
The uneasiness grew upon me so that I could not 
sleep at night ; grew pale and mislaid my appetite. 
At last it came to the crisis. I spoke out bluntly to 
Mary, telling her the state of my feelings and suggest- 
ing that we become man and wife. She seemed sur- 
prised, even startled. ‘But the trip to Europe,’ she 
said ; ‘ I have set my heart upon it.’ 

“ ‘You shall not be disappointed,’ I said in answer. 
‘ You can go as my wife.’ . 

‘ ‘ ‘ But can you leave your business and go on such 
short notice ?’ she asked.* 

“ ‘No,’ I said, ‘ I will not go with you. I will fol- 
low you in a fortnight or three weeks.’ 

“ She accepted me ; we were married and Mary 
Alstrup sailed with her mother and sister as Mary 
Alstrup Claggit. A little odd, wasn’t it for a bride 
to set out alone on her wedding tour ? I sailed in a 
fortnight, met them in London and was happy. , . 

We traveled for months. My business was good 
then ; I had money matters pretty well arranged, you 
know. . . . Blanche, my sister-in-law, made a suc- 
cess in opera, and all went well — for a time. Then we 
all came home. For a year and a little more I was as 
comfortable as any man could wish to be. . . 

Claggit paused and fell into a reflective fit. 

Burhance waited a reasonable length of time, then 
queried between his cigarette puffs : 


96 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


And how and when and wherefore did the snake- 
punt, as my little nephew calls it, creep into Eden 

Claggit answered slowly. 

^"She — got — tired!” 

Did her fickle fancy turn to some other — creature 
of habit, for instance ?” 

^^No,” Claggit spoke a little sharply. ‘^Nothing 
at all of the sort. Mary was the purest of women ; 
is still, for that matter. ... It wasn’t that ; but 
Blanche had made a public success and Mary — well, 
Maiy began to feel that she, too, might have been 
before the public. Then my business went down and 
we were badly off financially.” 

Burhance broke in again sarcastically. ^^You 
couldn’t furnish as many fine dresses for her. By 
George ! I’d rather a woman grew tired of me because 
she cared for some one else than because I couldn’t 
give her money enough. It would show that she had 
a heart in her — for some one — not a stone.” 

Dick Phillips echoed him softly. ‘^1 think just so, 
too, Burhance.” 

Things v/ent badly,” resumed Claggit, and from 
bad to worse. But I — I was so in the habit of living 
in her company that I thought if she left me I should 
die. She talked of it some. Her mother sided with 
her. I was desperate those days. I would have 
crawled on my hands and knees in the street to supply 
her with money. ... I did the best I could. I 
borrowed and schemed and lay awake at night. My 
God ! it makes the sweat stand out on my forehead 
now to remember it. . . . Well, I tried to be pa- 

tient, but couldn’t always keep quiet. She taunted 
me terribl^^ Had she been a man I might have killed 
her. . . . One awful day came at last. We had 

a stormy scene that morning and I went out with a 


A TALKATIVE MAN. 


97 


heart like lead. It was Friday, and everything* I tried 
to do failed — everything*. I knew I must have money 
that night to pay our board bill. I knew I must have 
a small sum anyway, I tramped the streets from 
place to place, office to office, friend to friend, saying 
to myself over and over again : ^ Courage a little long- 
er; I must succeed !’ and failing again and again. . . 
It was a cold March night, bitterly cold. As dusk 
came on I slipped into a pawnbroker’s shop and left 
my overcoat. Then I went home shivering, with just 
money enough to pay the board bill. ... I went 
in shivering with the cold. The room was unlighted. 
Mary was absent. I struck a match and reached the 
gas with numb fingers. Then I saw a note on the 
table. I picked it up and read a few words in her 
handwriting: ^You and I will get on better apart. 
There is too much of a struggle for us together. It is 
my desire to go on the lecture platform. I know you 
would not consent. I shall go to my mother’s. If 
you wish a legal separation, I will not oppose it.’ . . 
I read the note twice, then the room turned dark 
again. I knew no more. . . 

‘‘ Poor devil !” said Phillips softly. 

Jove ! She was a heartless one,” murmured Bur- 
hance. 

Claggit continued after a time. 

I lay ill — at death’s door — for a fortnight, but she 
was not sent for. The- illness broke the spell ; I was 
cured. When we had been separated two years she 
took a divorce and I did not oppose her. She lectured 
awhile, then she wrote a book. I believe she has made 
some money. I wish her nothing but success.” 

Burhance put away his cigarette. 

I had heard a different version of the matter,” he 
said slowly, ^^that she was enamored of some public 


98 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


man, an artist, I think, and was taking* her own way 
towards marrying him. I heard that he disappointed 
her, married some young girl with a load of money.” 

Not a word of truth in that,” said Claggit quickly, 
not a word. I ought to know.” 

^^Yes, you ought to know,” said Burhance dryly. 
But even if it were so of course we’d understand and 
appreciate your pride and desire to hide the truth 
from the world, eh, Phillips ?” 

‘‘Yes, of course. But Claggit’s all over it now. 
What’s the good of raking up old unpleasant — ” 

“ I tell you I don’t mind a hit,” said Claggit em- 
phatically. “I tell you it was habit. I’ll take an- 
other time to convince you what religion is. Why, 
to-day, if it were necessary or if we should come face 
to face by accident, I could meet that woman as calmly 
as if we had only been the merest friends. I could 
laugh and look at her as unconcernedly as — ” 

His words were suddenly silenced by a falling sound 
of something or some one, a scream and commotion 
in the hall, just outside Phillips’ door. Some one had 
apparently slipped or tripped on the staircase which 
wound down just there. It was a woman’s scream. 
The three friends sprang to the door. 

The lady had fainted. They were bringing her to 
life. She opened her eyes and looked direct at Claggit. 

“ Chester,” she said faintty, “I am glad to see you. 
It’s my ankle ; I only arrived to-day.” 

But Claggit’s friends drev’' him back into Phillips’ 
parlor. His face was ashen pale. He could hardly 
stand erect. 

“My God !” he said tremulously. “It is Mary !” 


A TALKATIVE MAN. 


99 


That was several weeks ago and Burhance and 
Phillips are holding* their breath in anticipation and 
dread of a reconciliation and re-marriag*e. 

Habit is a great thing/’ says Burhance dryly, 
when the three meet once more. 

^‘^Hard to shake/’ says Phillips with a low, musical 
laugh. But how about religion, eh, Claggit ?” 


“VERY INTERESTING.” 


What do you think of it?” asked Dickerson, sud- 
denly. 

Mordecai came out of his reverie with no great 
haste. He looked at his friend with a dream in his 
big, brown eyes, and for reply put forth a gentle 
question of his own. 

Think of what?” 

Good heavens ! What have we been looking at 
for the past hour? What have we been hearing 
about, but that one solitary marvel of precioUsness ^ 
The ^ Peachblow Vase,’ of course !” 

He pronounced ^^vase” correctly, neither descend- 
ing to the old-fashioned barbarity of ^ Vace”, nor slip- 
ping over to the unexplained absurdity of ‘Wawse”; 
he uttered ^Vase” as the word should be uttered, 
smoothly and pleasantly, with the moderate French a. 

They had just come from the great sale, whose 
details were helping to fill the newspapers day after 
day with incredible stories. 

Dickerson — by Christian name Ralph, by profession 
special writer at huge salary on a prominent daily — 
was an enthusiast in these matters. He made it a 
point to attend all art receptions, to do all collections 
and devour all displayed rarities with the gTeedy gaze 
of the connoisseur. He often wrote rhapsodic accounts 


VERY INTERESTING. 


101 


a 




of what pleased him best. Mordecai, on the contrary, 
was a novice, reluctant and uninformed, whom his 
friend was faithfully endeavoring to initiate. But 
then Mordecai was of tenderer age than the other, be- 
ing not more than 30, while the journalist had just 
turned his first half century and was well-seasoned. 
Mordecai was a dreamer ; adrift from his people, who 
were of the South ; well fixed in finances and lovingl 3 ^ 
disposed toward amateur journalism, which is to say 
journalism with a view to glory — nothing more. 

At Dickerson’s vivid explanatory the younger man 
seemed to awaken fully. 

‘‘It is very fine,” he said. “ I suppose that is the 
correct expression. I was thinking of other things.” 

“You were thinking of that girl in gray.” 

Mordecai started. 

“Did you see her?” he asked, with sudden anima- 
tion. 

“ Did I ? Of course I did.' In gray, with an orchid 
in her button-hole. Fine blossom it was, by the way. 
You must know all about orchids, Ned, if you want to 
get on with her. But I admire your taste. Gray — 
severely English in cut and texture ; high collar, and 
a demi- jockey cap. Well, who is she?” 

Mordecai answered, despairingly: “I hoped that 
you might know.” 

“Don’t youV^ 

“No.” 

“That’s a bad state of affairs. I’ll try and find out 
for you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mordecai, gratefully. “Would 
you mind stopping at the Hoffman House and taking 
a punch or a lemonade ?” 

“I don’t mind at all. Gray, with an orchid in the 
button-hole, must make a note of that.” 


102 


DROPS OF blood. 


The same evening Mr. Dickerson attended a hig*hly 
artistic and just sufficiently literary reception, given 
by a prominent society authoress. 

The first thing* — as we are all aware — at such affairs 
is to greet and compliment the hostess on every filing; 
her crowd, her entertaining qualities and her personal 
appearance — though she be as ugly as wickedness. 
But in this task some little skill is required. It must 
be done all in a breath and with a glance. The next 
thing is to wander ; the next again to discover a new 
star, or, that failing, to make yourself agreeable to 
those already known. 

Dickerson was feeling delightfully emotional. He 
had just finished writing an article on the Peach- 
blow Vase,’’ for his paper. He had not yet descend- 
ed from the heights of intensity up to which it had 
been necessary to work himself. 

He wandered in a rather tremulous condition. In 
other words his condition was shaky. So was his 
voice. Knowing this, he spoke but little, until sud- 
denly his eyes fell upon something at the farther end 
of the long drawing-room. It was an orchid blossom, 
nay two of them, resting half on a shell pink, square- 
cut corsage and half against pink humanity — other- 
wise the innocent plumpness of a girl’s fair neck. 

He lifted his eyes with an effort. Her face ! Then 
he turned back to the hostess. 

‘^Will you tell me,” he asked, ‘‘will you tell me 
the variety ?” 

The lady’s glance followed his own. She answered 
with a smile. “ I am not certain. It might classify 
as Phajus but more probably as Oncidium, Caven- 
disliianum. If you attended the flower show you will 
remember. That is Miss Cavendish. Shall I present 
you ?” 


'^VERY INTERESTING.’^ 103 

Can you ask the question 

^^But you are a dangerous old bachelor, and she is 
a rich Virginia beauty.^’ 

/‘I have a friend in love with her/’ said Dickerson 
reproachfully. 

^‘He is not here ?” 

No. She does not know him. I would like to 
sound her. Is she naive ?” 

Quite so. Come then, John Alden.” 

Miss Cavendish made room for the journalist on 
the divan she had hitherto monopolized. 

‘‘I know you so well already,” she said, with a 
quick little laugh. Dickerson saw in that flash of 
laughter her two solitary beauties, beautiful sapphire 
eyes and a beautifully curved row of upper teeth. It 
makes all the difference in the world how teeth are 
set in the head. There was nothing uncommon in her 
other features. Thousands of women have lovely 
necks and complexions and aquiline noses— her nose 
turned up a little. And Dickerson was critical. 

And how did you enjoy the sale, to-day?” he ask- 
ed. I think I saw you there.” 

She wrinkled her brow a moment. 

Perhaps so. Let me see. You were with another 
gentleman. I think he stared at me.” 

‘^He certainly did. I might tell you more, if I 
dared.” 

Miss Cavendish laughed again. 

O, don’t hesitate. I am quite used to compli- 
ments. Was it something about my eyes or mouth ?” 

The journalist started. 

^ ‘ Much more serious, I fear.” he answered after a 
moment of reflection. 

You interest me. Why did you not bring him to- 
night ?” 


104 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


We did not know you would be here.’’ 

You will bring him next time ?” 

If you say so.” 

Thus the trivial beginning of a conversation which 
ran into details that might prove even more tedious, 
unaccompanied by the fair picture presented by the 
lady. 

Dickerson spoke with curious force to the hostess 
an hour later. 

Who is that girl ?” 

Haven’t you found out before this ?” 

‘^No; she stupefies me. She says she thinks my 
nose could be improved on, and advises me to sacrifice 
my whiskers. ^ I would look younger !’ ” 

^‘Perhaps you would,” said the lady frankly. 

Dickerson withdrew. However he had learned — 
for Mordecai — that Miss Alma Cavendish was her 
name — that she had just returned from Europe, 
and was visiting the lady who had given the recep- 
tion. 

Two nights later he took Mordecai to call upon her. 

Two afternoons still later, Mordecai drove with her 
in the park. 

Three mornings following the drive, Dickerson sent 
her flowers. 

One night after the flowers, they made up a theatre 
party of four. Miss Cavendish’s hostess as chaperone. 

When the two men met on Broadway, the morning 
after, there seemed a strange constraint upon both. 
Dickerson being the elder of the two strove to cast it 
aside. But Mordecai only grew gloomier. 

^‘Look here, old fellow,” said the journalist sudden- 
ly, what’s the use of pretense between us ? I know 
you think I am getting a little too deeply interested 
in the young lady you adore. But — ” 


VERY INTERESTING. 


(( 


105 


Mordecai interrupted bitterly : O, of course I 

know I stand no chance when you are by,’’ 

Very well/’ said Dickerson hufldly, ‘‘I’ll withdraw. 
Understand that. You may have the field to your- 
self.” 

And he turned on his heel and was off. 

Mordecai sighed. He was to call upon the lady that 
afternoon. She had asked both gentlemen, but he 
knew now that Dickerson would not go. 

He went around at 5 — the hour appointed — with a 
huge bouquet and a heart of hope. 

Miss Cavendish took the flowers with vast delight, 
and led the way back to the boudoir at the extreme 
end of the drawing room. 

“Let me make you acquainted — ” she began, 
when Mordecai uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
A gentleman, who had been seated there arose with 
an embarrassed smile. It was Dickerson, and he had 
shaved off his whiskers. 

The two men eyed each other furtively ; Mordecai 
with genuine anger ; Dickerson with anxious depreca- 
tion. 

Miss Cavendish only grew more animated. She 
was looking radiant that day. 

“How strange,” she said, “that you should both 
have brought me lilacs ! How did you divine ?” 

Mordecai answered a little sarcastically, “You told 
me it was your favorite.” 

And Dickerson, “You liked those that I sent you 
first.” 

Miss Cavendish answered, with a caress in her 
voice, “ And it was lovely in you both.” 

Mordecai made the first move to depart, and Dick- 
erson, somehow, had not the courage to remain after. 
They both went out together, walking nearly a block 


106 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


before either spoke. Then the younger man cried 
out, passionately, You are not playing fair V’ 

‘‘ How do you make it so ?’’ asked Dickerson. 

You love that girl 

Well, and if I do 

Mordecai was staggered. 

don’t know why we should quarrel about her,” 
he said in a calmer voice. She is not so wonderfully 
clever or beautiful. Nothing but her eyes to recom- 
mend her.” 

Quite true,” Dickerson echoed in a matter-of-fact 
tone. Nothing but her eyes — and her teeth.” 

Yes, her teeth,” the other admitted. Eyes and 
teeth are not all. What kind of a mind has she? 
What sort of a companion would she be for a man of 
your calibre?” 

Or of yours ?” agreed Dickerson. 

You would soon weary of her,” continued Mor- 
decai. 

She would seem silly to you in no time at all,” 
said Dickerson. My dear boy, it is the most fortunate 
thing in the world that we have had this frank talk. 
We understand each other now. Neither of us really 
cares for her. It has been only an infatuation. She 
is fascinating in a fashion, but — ^between you and me, 
I think that she is nothing more or less than an 
educated flirt.” 

^^It is a pity you cut you whiskers,” said Mor- 
decai. 

They will grow again,” said Dickerson, after a 
moment of thought. Not like losing an arm or a 
leg.” 

They broke into laughter. And so they parted. 

But whatever resolve might have been in the mind 
of the journalist, he could not resist calling around 


^Wery interesting/’ 107 

two evenings later to see Miss Cavendish. And, 
strangely enough, they drifted into a conversation 
concerning the tender passion and affections in 
general. 

‘‘All women,’’ said the young lady, “like to be 
surprised in love-matters. And somewhere I was 
reading the other day that the secret of long-continued 
friendship is first affinity, and after that some develop- 
ment or growth to feed united attributes. I think 
there is much truth in that.” 

Dickerson grew thoughtful. Had not the moment 
— the most auspicious moment — arrived ? How now 
to frame his thoughts ? He must choose wisely ; had 
she not been admiring his writings and compliment- 
ing him thereon. A felicitous fiow of ideas came to 
his rescue, and he was just on the point of utterance, 
when — unfortunate interruption — a caller was an- 
nounced ! 

Mordecai entered in faultless attire. 

The two men glared at each other. Then Dickerson 
arose. 

“ But you will not go !” she exclaimed, in surprise. 
“ Did you not know I am leaving to-morrow — for Vir- 
ginia ? Or, if you must, will you not call to say good- 
bye in the morning ?” 

“I will call,” said Dickerson. It seemed like the 
last straw on the camel’s back. He could not have 
remained to save his life. 

Earlj^ in the morning in lieu of calling, he wrote a 
letter, and, stepping into a messenger office to send it, 
whom should he encounter but Mordecai, intent upon 
a similar errand. 

“ I have written to Miss Cavendish,” said the jour- 
nalist defiantly. 

“ So have I,” said Mordecai. 


108 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


The two men faced each other in silence. 

At length Dickerson cleared his throat and spoke 
with an attempt at calmness : There is no need for 

us to make fools of ourselves in public. Order the 
office to send the reply up to my rooms, and come up 
there with me while you wait. My answer is to come 
there. And whichever of us comes in ahead, we 
won’t be enemies.” 

Mordecai turned reluctantly and obeyed. The^^ 
went into the street together and in silence proceeded 
to Dickerson’s bachelor quarters. 

Mordecai sat down wearily ; he looked as if he had 
been losing sleep. Dickerson took a chair facing liiin. 
There was an ebony inlaid table between them with a 
gorgeous lamp on a velvet mat. Mordecai’s big, 
brown eyes were fastened upon the lamp, which boi’e 
one of the ultra-fashionable spooky shades ; Dickerson 
gazed past it at his friend with a sort of confident 
commiseration . 

^‘You are badly ^ broke up,’ old fellow,” he said 
presently. I wish I could get you out of feeling so. 
Only look the matter in the face. She fascinates you 
just now — but after a little you’ll see that she 
wouldn’t suit you at all. No, she wouldn’t be the 
mate for you, Ned, I am sure. Besides, I have reason 
to think she prefers an older man.” 

Mordecai’s glance was loyal to the lamp. He 
replied in a dreamy tone, as if he had heard but the 
other’s first sentence : Perhaps I am no worse off 

than yourself. You are a changed man, Dickerson. 
It isn’t only the whiskers. Somebody spoke to me 
about you the other day, wondering why your 
writings were so different. It’s a pity that a woman 
young. enough to be your daughter should play such 
mischief with a man of your brain. There might be 


X 


VERY INTERESTING. 


109 




yy 


some excuse if she were not so plainly trifling' with 
you—’’ 

Dickerson interrupted loftily : She has unusual 

appreciation. I don’t know that I ever met any one 
who could better understand some of my flner 
theories. ... It won’t wreck your life, Ned, 
though it may- seem hard for a time.” 

Mordecai began to breathe faster. 

A smooth face would become you, Dickerson, if 
you were just a little plumper. Of course you’ll let 
the beard grow again.” 

Dickerson’s chair began to creak ominously. 

^‘'You 7nust have sleep, Ned, or you’ll go under. 
Bromide is the least harmful — ” 

should like her to carry a bouquet of orchids 
when we are married,” said Mordecai with a deflant 
look. 

Dickerson suddenly stood on his feet. His face 
seemed to flush up scarlet all in a second. 

^‘Boy,” he cried, whatever you do, keep your 
wits. I’m awfully sorry, Ned ; I didn’t dream how it 
was to end. But the girl can’t help her feelings ; she 
likes you as a friend, I know, but beyond that she has 
painly indicated a preference — ” 

Mordecai had also risen. His answer came like a 
gust of storm : How do you know what she may 

not have said to me ? A man of your age ought to 
know something.” 

Dickerson’s red heat was fanned to white. 

A boy of your age may be excused for his idiotic 
presumption.” 

You fancy she cares for you, except in a grand- 
daughterly way ?” 

^‘No sneers, if you please, sir !” 


110 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


You threaten me? If I were such a consummate 
fool as — ’’ 

Have a care, sir 

^^And do you have a care. No living man shall 
bully me !” 

Bully a jackanapes 

^‘You’ve gone too far/’ cried Mordecai hoarsely. 
“If you were a man I’d demand satisfaction !” 

Dickerson was livid : I’ll give you all you want !” 

And just then came a knock at the door. 

It was a messenger bearing a letter for each gentle- 
men. 

In silence the seals were broken. In silence the 
contents were absorbed. 

Then the men turned and looked in each other’s 
faces. Simultaneous sighs from their lips. And at 
once they broke into high and somewhat hysterical 
laughter. 

“ By Jove, it beats me !” 

Sold ; that’s all !” said Mordecai. 

And grasping each other’s hands, the two friends, 
who had so nearly approached to enmity, read aloud 
in comical yet plaintive unison, the notes so latety 
penned by the fair fingers of the Virginia beauty. 
The notes were identical : 

‘‘My dear Friend — I thank you with all my heart for the 
(highest of all) compliment you have paid me this morning — an 
honor as surprising as flattering. There is, however, an obstacle 
to my consideration of your proposal. T am already engaged to 
be married. Pray except my warm friendship, and believe me, 

“ Sincerely yours, Alma Cavendish.” 

“P. S. — How shall I express my gratitude? You have made 
it so very interesting for me.” 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 


There are attics and attics. There are tenement 
tops only a little less foul than the kennel-like stories 
built under, and reeking* in equal proportion with 
unclean occupancy and hideous courtyard odors ; and 
there are other ‘^sky-parlor” quarters which are by 
no means revolting, which on the contrary are much 
sought after, especially by those whose tastes and 
finances are continually in a state of agonism. These 
other quarters are found as a rule under the roofs of 
many once majestic, but of late hors de societe man- 
sions, They are generally small rooms, with some- 
times a southern outlook, a siugle square of warmth 
and glory from the outer world ; or else they may look 
out over bleak back yards. Sometimes one is im- 
pressed with clean silence and a nameless perfume 
which seems to pinch and benumb the senses. Some- 
times it is a “ first-class ” boarding-house, sometimes 
only “furnished rooms to-let”; sometimes the arrang- 
ment is optional. 

The house I have in mind gave meals if one desired ; 
the room I am about to mention was a top floor, middle 
apartment, square, clean, and fairly-furnished, having 
one window that was drenched every morning with 
yellow sunlight. The window faced the east and 
looked out over a rusty red roof. A white muslin 


112 


DKOPS OP BLOOD. 


shade fluttered with hoarding-house nonchalance in 
the summery atmosphere — for it was August. The 
other adornments of the room were the usual blase 
carpet, folding bed, wardrobe, etc. ; that is, the per- 
manent adornments. 

Eurydice and her upright piano must be otherwise 
considered. The piano was littered with music in 
every shape, books, pamphlets, sheets, magazines, all 
lying scattered like particular patterns from which 
Eurydice must come and cut with slender, skillful fin- 
gers the clear beauties of classic melody. 

It was 3 in the afternoon when she ran in breathless, 
warm and weary. She threw down her rolls and 
packages — she often carried such — removed her bonnet 
in a fashion peculiar to herself, and adjusted her hair. 
It was possible she apprehended a caller, for presently 
she went over and picked up the bonnet from the cor- 
ner into which she had flung it. 

Eurydice* was a tall girl, I do not know how old ; it 
is possible she was 21. She had fine black hair, put 
back smoothly from a perfect forehead, sad, sweet 
eyes — any color you choose, only dark — and a palloi* 
that was dazzling. She wore a brown tricot skirt and 
a brown jersey — though tricot is a trifle heavy for 
August. Picking up the bonnet and regarding it 
compassionately for an instant — though happily the 
bonnet had grown hardened — she put it away proper- 
ly; then she flung herself down in a cane rocking 
chair and rocked violently for some moments. 

She was still rocking when her visitor arrived. She 
started to her feet then, and took a step forward, 
speaking in an agitated voice. 

She may have offered him — for of course it was a 

he,’’ one of the he’s” that seem to be placed on the 
earth chiefly to pursue and persecute defenseless 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 


113 


womankind — she may have offered him the rocking 
chair. At all events he took it, and Eurydice took the 
piano stool. 

He was neither beautiful nor ugly, this caller of 
hers; he was moderately attractive; physically a 
heavy-weight, large, strong-limbed, supple. He had 
a good color, and wore an adequate moustache. His 
name was Augustus V an Kleeck. It was not an alias ; 
was as much his own name as hers was Eurydice Dean. 
She knew all about him, what his business was — stock- 
broking — who his family were, and where he lived. He 
could not have lied to her about these things had he 
wished; and perhaps he did not wish. He had met 
her in the music rooms where she spent her forenoons 
as office correspondent and piano saleswoman, being 
himself an amateur. He knew that she was alone and 
self-supporting, and he seemed inclined to know more 
of her. 

Eurydice^s agitation did not at once subside. ‘‘I 
have just come in,” she said nervously. This is one 
of my class days. You know I have eleven pupils.” 

Van Kleeck, who sat twirling his hat, answered in 
an interested tone : ^ ‘ What a busy life you lead ! And 
studying yourself ?” 

I take two lessons a week,” said Eurydice. 

He did not speak again at once ; he had turned his 
attention to various little pictures pinned up on the 
wall. His roving glance rested at length on a photo- 
graph. 

^^You are looking at my father,” said Eurydice, 
nervously alert. 

Indeed?” He arose and approached the picture. 
Eurydice followed him. 

That,” she said, speaking distinctl^^ and as if with 
a purpose, that is my father. You will see that he 


114 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


has an honest face. He is a farmer. I prize that 
picture above all others. More than once it has 
been — it has saved me !” 

Van Kleeck turned with a peculiar expression. 

Why do you look at me so ? she cried with a sud- 
den sharpness. What did you think I meant 

‘‘I was looking- to see/’ he answered dispassionate- 

ly. 

I will explain then/’ she said more quietly. The 
picture has stood between me and despair ; in hours of 
awful darkness, when illness, misfortune — even starva- 
tion — were staring me in the face ! For only to catch 
a glimpse of it has renewed hope ; at such times it has 
seemed to speak, and say, ^ Courage, courage a little 
longer ! Be brave, be brave ! Never say die !’ Yes ; 
more than once I have stood on the verge of despair, 
and suddenly the face of my poor old father, toiling 
out there among the hills, toiling patiently over his 
few barren acres, has come to me just in time. You 
see, though he was only a farmer, and quite unedu- 
cated, he did his best for me. He sent me off to 
school ; put me forward in my music ; always had faith 
in me ! But you have no idea,” she said — a little bit- 
terness coming into her tone — what the struggle of 
a lone woman means. Hoav could 3^ou be expected to 
have any idea ?” 

Van Kleeck stared thoughtfully at the homely face 
in the photograph. It was a homel}^ face, with cheek- 
bone promiuence and irregular features ; one eyebrow 
was lifted higher than the other with an expression 
half-quizzical, half humorous, but wholly benevolent. 
The thin hair was quite gray, and there were strag- 
gling whiskers beneath the deep chin. 

Eurydice spoke next with great simplicity : I hope 
to succeed in my music. I want to place my father 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 


115 


where he need never stoop again to the plow or seed 
another acre. I have an ambition to give him a home 
and many comforts.’’ 

Van Kleeck put out his hand to touch her own, but 
she brushed it from her with a swift movement he had 
seen before. 

You are making me forget,” he said then slowly, 
^Hhat I have something to say to you.” 

Eurydice grew very pale. 

I wanted you to know a little of my life,” she said 
distinctly, I thought if you knew — ^you might have 
more — compassion . ’ ’ 

She walked over to the window aud leaned out, her 
elbows resting on the outer sill of stone, her eyes on 
the rusty red roof. 

Van Kleeck followed her example. The width of 
the window was not great, and they stood very near 
each other. Eurydice had begun to tremble even ere 
he spoke. She did not start at hearing her own 
name; it may be she shrank a little and trembled 
more as he continued swiftly : 

Did it never occur to you,” he said, that instead 
of wearing your life out in this way, you might love 
some man enough to marry him ? Some good fellow 
who could support you well and who would help and 
encourage you in your studies ?” 

Eurydice put one hand before her eyes. Perhaps it 
was the strong light dazzled her. She scarcely moved 
or breathed as his arm stole about her, his warm 
breath fanned her hair. 

I suppose,” he said dubiously, and with a sort of 
pathos in the doubt, I suppose you wouldn’t care to 
marry me ?” 

Drops of warm rain fell suddenly over the stone sill 
and oufc upon the rusty red roof. Eurydice bowed 


116 


DROPS OF BLOOD, 


down her face and sobbed as if her heart were break- 
ing*. 

« 4: 4: Hi 4c 

In New York one can be married so easily and in 
such a romantic fashion. Eurydice’s mother had been 
romantic (hence the name of the daughter), also con- 
sumptive, also had died young. Eurydice may have 
inherited some such tendency. At least she was 
emotional. They were married — Eurydice and Van 
Kleeck — a day or two later, without a word to any one. 
They simply walked into a church and walked out 
again man and wife. They went back to Eurydice’s 
boarding-house and took pleasant rooms on the 
second story. But Eurydice also kept her attic 
chamber for a practice room. She gave up her morn- 
ing work, but retained her pupils. Van Kleeck 
allovred her to do quite as she pleased in these 
matters. He appeared happy, and spent most of his 
time with his wife. 

Eurydice wrote a long letter to her father, and a few 
days later received as lengthy a reply, which she read 
aloud to her husband. He appeared to enjoy the com- 
munication. 

Ask the old gentleman to pay us a visit in the 
Fall,” he said, ^^when harvesting is over.” 

Eurydice sprang from her seat and falling on her 
knees at his side covered his face with passionate tears 
and kisses. 

You are so good, so good !” she sobbed. I am 
the happiest woman in the world — the very happiest ! 
O, God ! What have I done that I should be so 
happy?” 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 117 

He stood like a quaint wax figure before the florist’s 
window, the quaint old man who was slowly, smil- 
ingly making his way southward through the roar 
and clamor of the city — the great city whose millions, 
surging north and south and east and west, pass and 
repass to and fro and in and out between each other 
like human shuttles, and so weave with flesh-and- 
blood fibre the vast, strong, terrible fabric we call 
Life. The quaint old man in his utter simplicity con- 
cerning city distances, had thought to walk from the 
station to his daughter’s home. With his homely old 
valise, his farmer’s Sunday garb, clean and of good 
stuff, yet antique in cut and awkwardly fitting, he 
wandered slowly, smilingly down the great thorough- 
fare. Eurydice had expected him by a later train, 
hence had not met him. It was a clear, crisp day in 
November, but he could hardly realize it in the snow- 
less city with its hundreds of glittering show windows. 
It seemed to him that he must pause as he walked ; 
there was so much to see*— so much that was wonder- 
ful ! And standing there before the florist’s plate glass, 
gazing upon that wealth of bloom, and catching, now 
and then as the door opened and closed, the delicious 
steamy fragrance from within, it was like a dream. 
He had stood for a long time ere speaking half-aloud 
and quite unconsciously : ^‘She alius liked blocks,” — 
and then with a sudden, explosive force : I’ll do it ! 
I’ll see!” 

I say there are delicate souls which are yet 
uncultured. Souls of rare intrinsic beauty. This Avas 
one. He stood a little longer, perhaps remembering 
Aprils and Mays of twenty years agone, and lilac 
bushes and soft dusks about the little farm house, and 
the voice and presence of a Avoman long dead ! Then 
he turned and entered the florist’s. 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


Il8 

The flowers were very dear, but he did not grudge 
the price. She used alius to like lilocks/’ he said as 
he trudged bravely on his way with the old valise and 
the new pasteboard box of precious contents. 

Eurydice was watching the clock. She had been 
nervous all day ; partly at thought of seeing her 
father — a glad nervousness — partly because of worri- 
ment concerning her husband. For some days past 
— perhaps a week or two — he had not seemed himself 
at all. They had been married three months. She 
had had three months of perfect happiness. And 
now, if only her husband need not have cause for 
worry ! He had not told her much ; she knew pretty 
well, however, that it was business matters — perhaps 
money losses. And she had a faint apprehension that 
his relatives were not treating him well, because of 
his marriage, she fancied. For instance, they — his 
relatives — had never called upon her. His sister, his 
two brothers, his young niece. None had ever come ! 
Was it that they disapproved of — Eurydice? She 
tried to dismiss the thought, though it had begun to 
gnaw at her heart. And when her father arrived 
unannounced, she forgot all for a time and laughed 
and capered about the room like a child of 6. 

^‘Here’s some blocks, Eury,” said the good old 
man, you alius used to like blocks.’’ 

Eurydice had a great deal to say, a torrent of talk 
to pour upon her father when he came down again 
from the attic chamber — her own former quarters — 
where she had installed him. She had lighted the gas 
and put the lilacs in water, and drawn up an easy chair 
for the farmer. The old man looked about him with 
admiring wonder. The room was deliciously warm 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 


119 


and fragrant, and the mellow light made everything 
more beautiful. He looked about him with admiring 
wonder, and seemed at loss for words. But Eurydice 
had an abundance of ideas, and poured forth plans 
and prospects and past happiness without ceasing. 
She praised her husband, too, with mingled smiles 
and tears. She thought she hardly had deserved 
so much. 

At this the old man spoke up sturdily : No,’’ he 

said, you ain’t got more than your deserts. You’d 
ought to had the best, Eury. There wa’n’t no man too 
good for you. Though, mebbe, he’s the right sort, 
an’ I ain’t one to pick flaws.” 

Eurydice smiled and glanced at the clock. She 
longed for her husband to come. She knew that when 
he came she would be perfectly happy. There would 
be nothing in her heart but joy. Nothing but joy ! 
Ah, God ! There are such hours in every life ! There 
had been the hour she flung herself upon her knees 
and cried out: ‘What have I done that I should be 
so happy?” 

Time sped as they talked there — sped until the clam- 
or of the dinner-bell recalled the girl. 

“ It is 6 o’clock,” she said in dismay, “What can 
be the matter ? what can be keeping my husband ? 
He never was so late — he never stayed before.” 

“ There couldn’t no acciden’ happen,” the old farm- 
er began, and suddenly stopped at the look that came 
into Eurydice’s face. 

“No, no,” she answered painfully. “It couldn’t 
be!” 

They did not go down to dinner. They waited, of 
course. They waited and Eurydice went on telling 
pleasant things about her husband. 

When she heard steps at length, she flew to the 


120 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


door ; but it was only a messenger with a letter. She 
signed the slip with a nervous laugh, and stepping 
under the gaslight hastily tore open the envelope. 

Trying to beat back warmth into her hands ! Try- 
ing to blow breath into her body ! Calling her name 
piteously with tears running down his cheeks ! That 
was what the old man was doing in the long moments 
ere he might read the letter which had fallen with her 
when she fell — fell and lay white and never stirred, 
liked a snapped-off blossom. When finally life seem- 
ed to return, when she breathed faintly again, though 
her eyes were yet closed, he took time to examine the 
sheet. " 

It was clear, bold handwriting, and he read with 
terror-sharpened senses. It had no beginning ; no 
^^dear wife!’’ ^‘1 shall not be home to dinner,” it 
said ; ^‘nor shall I be able to come at all to-night. I 
am about leaving the city. I cannot tell you where 
I am going, for you might unwisety seek to follow 
me. You must not suppose I am leaving you because 
I do not care for you ; y )U must trust me. You have 
noticed lately I seemed worried. The truth is, my 
relatives have been ver /- bitter because of my rela- 
tions with you, which they have not fully understood, 
and which it has been impossible for me to explain to 
them. You see, before I met you I had ties already. 
You must not judge me harshlj", but must accommo- 
date yourself to circumstances. For the present I am 
compelled to rejoin the woman whose claim on me is 
one prior to your own. It is highly unpleasant for 
me, but may not always have to last. To-morrow I 
will send you some money, and your father will take 
you home, I hope. But, above all, do nothing foolish, 
for you would only hurt yourself. My family is rich 
and powerful ; you are single-handed and alone.” 


ON THE OLD BED ROOF. 


121 


Long ago it was usual for every story to have a 
moral ; likewise a villain. Of late the moral is option- 
al, and villains are dispensed with. We only have 
coivards of late. 

There was no signature ! The old man drank it all 
in, understood it all. Old as the farmer was, I think 
Van Kleeck would have fared ill to have entered at 
that moment. 

Eurydice moaned once or twice and presently sat 
up. Father,’’ she cried and seemed as if struggling 
to awaken from a horrible nightmare. Father, I 
dreamed it ! Say I dreamed it !” 

The old man answered brokenly. Eury, Eury, 
I’m here ! Your old father’s here. He’ll never 
desert you !” 

Eurydice got upon her feet. She still struggled and 
seemed suffocating. Her face was colorless like that 
of one near death. Father ! You don’t doubt me ! 
You don’t doubt I was his wife !” 

The old man fairly sobbed. No, no, child ! No, 
no, no; I know — I know you wa’n’t to blame. You 
was too good, too good.” 

Father,” — she grew wilder as moments passed — 

Don’t you — don’t you think he’ll come soon ? If he 
doesn’t come, what shall I do !” 

The old man tried to soothe her. There’s law, 
Eury ; there’s law an’ the courts an’ jails fur jail- 
birds ” — he had to stop. 

She had started as if stabbed to the heart. Then 
she began to walk swiftly to and fro ; a strange 
strength possessed her ; her speed increased until she 
began to run around in a circle like a mad animal. 
The old man stood watching with eyes of terror. His 
speech thickened; she kept on repeating her wild 
protest : What shall I do, what shall I do She 


jDROPS op blood. 


123 

still ran around in a circle; her dry e3^es had a 
burning look ; her face was drawn and haggard. 

The old man shook with terror. ^^Eur}^, Eury!” 
he implored. But his words only maddened her. 

Let me alone ?” she screamed, and seizing a pair 
of scissors from the table would have torn at her own 
throat, but he caught her in his arms. 

My poor child,’’ he cried in a voice of helpless woe. 

All night long he held her in his arms. How slowly 
the hours passed! How she struggled and raved ! 
How she wore herself exhausted I How she moaned 
one name ! How she sat up shuddering with a 
blind look in her eyes ! How her head and hands 
seemed to scorch him ! How her heart throbbed and 
shook her frail body I 

Holding her in his arms he prayed constantly. 
(Or were there moments when he paused to wonder 
why God would put agony and shame upon the 
innocent, the unprotected ?) 

When dawn was breaking she seemed fvilly exhaust- 
ed, and he laid her gently down. He opened a 
window wide for air then ; the lilac fragrance and the 
warmth had grown sickening. 

How terrible it had been to hear her ravings : 
^‘ Why did he — ^why did he — I never asked — he came 
to me — I never — I never — ” 

Nobody knew. Nobod^^ in the house. Only, the 
young wife was ill, the husband was absent. The 
father staid by his child, night and day. Scarcely he 
slept or ate. He sat with face of woe and heard her 
ravings. 

^^When father comes — how pleased he’ll be — we’ll 
show him — all the sights — all the sights — how 


ON THE OLD RED ROOF. 


123 


pleased he’ll be — how good — how good you are — how 
good — ” 

In fourteen days the fire went out. She raved no 
more ; but one morning she looked up at him — great 
yearning eyes looked up out of a grayish-pale face. 

^^Poor father!” she said faintly, yet with tender- 
ness. And after a moment, ‘‘1 wish — I wish you 
would carry me up to my old room at the top — the old 
room I was happy in — so long — so long ago. I wish 
you would carry me up to look out on the old red roof 
once more.” 

^^Bimeby,” he answered gently; ^^bimeby when 
you git strong.” 

Eurydice closed her eyes. 

^ ‘ Father — he — never — came ? He sent no — word ?” 

The old man rose suddenly and walked to the win- 
dow. 

/^No,” he said unsteadily, ‘‘nothing — but the 
money. I ain’t touched it.” 

He stood looking out into the street, and noticed for 
the first time that a light snow had fallen. The sun 
was trying to melt it. He wondered if it had snowed 
out on the farm. He wondered if she would soon 
be able to go back home with him — back to the old 
home — or if — he dared not think of what might hap- 
' pen. He trembled and the tears would come upon his 
cheeks. His only child, his “ one ewe lamb ” — all the 
hope and pride he had ! 

Eurydice rested quietly ; the pallor and quietude 
seemed to unite and intensify. 

As the day passed, she spoke again frequently, im- 
ploring him to carry her up to her old room. 

“ Do you think,” she said wistfully, “that I am too 
heavy?” 

Then he consented. He wrapped her carefully, and 


124 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


bore her out and up into the attic with the eastern 
window. He held her like a child while she looked out 
upon the red roof patched with snow. The sky was 
clear as at midsummer ; the medley of sky-lights and 
chimneys and all the top look of the world spread far 
away. 

Eurydice^s eyes took on a great languor. 

^Ht was here/’ she said slowly, and scarcely over a 
whisper. It was here — that day — ” 

Her whisper died in a sigh. 

The old man stood there patiently for a long time. 
He was glad to stand there, if it pleased her. When 
he spoke at last it was only with the thought that 
she might wish to sleep. 

Don’t you think we’d better go down now, Eury ?” 

But Euiydice made no answer. 

Even so ! Looking out over the rusty red roof, her 
eyes had grown too languid, and — she slept ! 


FELIX GRAY, 


Miss Duval remained on the piazza for some time 
after her mother had re-entered the hotel, A 
thoughtful girl, with a queenly carriage [and an ideal 
head ; not more than twenty years of age, yet woman- 
ly and reposeful in manner. The day was perfect — a 
mid-October spell of rare color, rare ^atmosphere, rare 
silence — only the sound of the katy-dids, beginning 
long ere sunset. The clear sky, the blue mountain 
tops, the nearer slopes and groves of odorous pines, 
even the yellow road, winding steeply down toward 
the village, all were pleasant to look upon, and Grace 
Duval was fond of nature. It gave her keenest joy 
simply to sit and single out, with artist’s eye, some 
dash of snow upon the azure of the heavens ; some 
blood-red seal of the season’s setting on sumach or 
maple. How she had enjoyed their fortnight’s 
sojourn at that pleasant hill-top hotel ! 

‘ There were three of the Duvals. Besides her mother 
and herself there was also Kirke Duval, a second 
cousin, and, some said, a suitor of the young lady’s. 

She had been looking off toward the mountains for 
some time when her attention was diverted by the 
sound of wheels. The hotel stage, a lumbering, three- 
seated vehicle, came around from the great red barn 
at the rear of the house. It was just starting for the 


126 , 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


village to meet steamboat and train and bring up anj^ 
possible new arrivals. The horses seemed unusually 
restless, and Felix Gray held the reins, a slight, deli- 
cate-faced boy, in whom Miss Duval had already taken 
an interest. She noticed how restless the horses 
seemed, and so called out to the 3^oung driver, in her 
sweet, kindly voice, asking if he were to drive down 
alone. She had felt an interest in the boy since the 
moment she had first seen him. He had such a frail 
physique and such sad, dusky, long-lashed e^^es. 
He was as delicate as a woman, with fair skin, and 
pointed features, and wavy golden hair. She wonder- 
ed now if his small thin hands were strong enough to 
control the fractious animals. And when he had an- 
swered her question in a low, weary affirmative, she 
felt a curious, apprehensive concern. She left her 
wooden rocking chair and came forward to speak to 
him while he took the mail-bag from the clerk. But 
her speech was checked by the look the boy, turning, 
cast upon her — a singular expression of intensity and 
suffering, perhaps even more— an expression she could 
not wholly fathom. It affected her strangely, and 
so she did not speak, as she had purposed, bidding 
him drive carefull}^ where the road was steepest, and 
an upsettal would prove most disastrous. She only 
watched him take up the reins and drive away down 
the winding yellow path. 

4 : * * * * 

^^Come,’’ said a man’s voice, which seemed sudden- 
ly to have approached from behind — a rich, hearty, 
bass voice, suggesting the elements of good-fellow- 
ship ”_and a hand touched her arm in proprietary 
fashion ; come, we cannot allow you to dream at 
midday.” 


FELIX GKAY. 


127 


Miss Duval turned slowly and with reluctance. 
Her mother was standing in the door- way, a petite, 
prematurely white-haired saint. She was smiling-, 
and spoke tenderly. 

^‘^Kirke wants you to g-o for a walk, my child. 
Now is the time to go down in the grove. It is too 
chilly later.” 

^^Yes, mother,” said Grace absently, and put on 
the hat which she had been holding in her hand. 

They were a handsome couple setting- off together. 
He tall, lithe and fair, yet vigorous. She raven hair- 
ed, with lustrous topaz eyes, and brow pale and pure 
as calla lillies. The saint-faced mother thought so, 
looking after them as they went farther and farther 
off in the afternoon sunlight. And she sighed in a re- 
lieved way at the prospect of their union. 

The grove walk was thickly strewn with needles of 
pine, so thickly that one’s footsteps fell soft and 
soundless, as upon velvet. The two walked slowly 
and said but little. There was a great silence on the 
world, it seemed to Grace Duval. Now and then, yet 
rarely, the faint twitter of a bird. They kept on in 
their slow promenade until the path, descending 
gently, came all at once upon a rustic foot bridge 
across a gully, with an easy current flowing over 
the green stones. And there they paused. 

Kirke Duval took his cousin’s hand and spoke ten- 
derly, though she, for some reason, held her face 
averted. 

I love you,” he said. Will you come to me for- 
ever, Grace, my darling?” 

She did not move or speak. The great silence 
seemed again upon them, and now even the bird twit- 
ter was finished. But there was the oozing of the 
easy current underneath. 


128 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


He waited a little. Then he gently made as if to 
take her face between his hands and turn it towards 
him. She drew back and spoke with vague reluc- 
tance : I — do not — know.’’ 

Kirke Duval gave no sign of impatience. Say that 
you will, ” he urged softly. Your mother approves 
and she will be made happy. Grace, I love you !” 

She spoke up suddenly. 

Kirke, did you ever say those words to any other 
woman ? Did you ever before say_, ^ I love you ” 

He appeared surprised. 

What a singular question !” he exclaimed. 

He hesitated only a second however. 

Never in earnest, Grace. I swear to you I never 
loved before. . . . And shall I have my answer 

now? Darling, turn your face -to me. Do not look 
away. I have loved you a long time. I am almost 
sure you can return my love. And we shall be so 
happy. Turn your sweet face, darling.” 

She obeyed slowly. The movement of her perfect 
head was gradual, yet certain. Slowly, slowly her 
pale pure countenance was dawning fully upon him. 
He bent his head a little. He bent to press his lips 
to hers, when she fell away as if struck. 

Oh !” she cried out, and began to tremble violent- 
ly. ^^No, no, no ! I must have time to think. You 
must give me time. It is too sudden !” 

He bowed in silence, looking astonished and dis- 
pleased. 

Shall we return ?” he asked then. 

^^Yes,” she answered faintlj^, and they retraced 
their steps. She said nothing more. She was only 
thinking of the singular sensation she had but now 
experienced. What was it ? How could she describe 
it? Just ere his lips had brushed her own, a sharp, 


FELIX GRAY. 


129 


crashing sound rang in her ears, as if it were the 
sound of something far away. The sound of catastro- 
phe, great or little she could not tell ; a sound he 
might not hear; a sound audible only to herself, 
though why she could not tell. The sound of death 
perhaps. But whatever it was it bore down upon her 
and her affairs. 

As at length they emerged from the grove and 
climbed the slope toward the hotel, they quickened 
their steps — for two reasons. One, that the sun had 
gone down and the air was chilly ; the other, that 
something seemed to have happened at the hotel. 
There was a commotion in the piazza ; guests and ser- 
vants had all gathered there — and sornething or some 
one — was being carried in. 

Faster, faster said Grace Duval abruptly. 

Something has happened !” She left her cousin and 
ran on, but the commotion had subsided partly as she 
reached the steps. The hotel team, they told her, had 
run away and dashed into another team, and Felix 
Gray was brought back dying. 

Grace Duval put her hand to her head in a dazed 
way. The crash ! The calamity ! Was it this ? Then 
some one spoke her name. Felix was asking for her — 
for Miss Duval. Would she go to him. He could not 
live an hour. She turned, bade her cousin go to her 
mother, then followed some one to the room where 
the boy Felix lay dying. Was it not a barren place — 
that bare-floored, bare- walled place? Was it not a 
sweet, still face before her ? They left her alone with 
the dying. He had something to confide, some secret. 
He could barely whisper. 

Grace Duval knelt and took a bloodless hand with 
purple nails in her own. 


130 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


What can I do ?” she said tenderl}^, and tears fell 
from her g-entle eyes. 

Nothing*, ’’ said Felix Gray. ^^You can do nothing* 
— ^but listen.” He had to stop and speak more slowly. 

have something to — tell you. About — about a 
girl. . . . There was a girl once ; she was young, 

and she was not wise. A man — a man came to be her 
lover. They were to be married.” 

Grace Duval bent her ear very close and held the 
cold hand closer in her owm. 

Yes,” she said tenderly. I understand.” 

Felix continued with increasing difficulty : They 
went to a place — to be married. . . . But he had 

lied. He had not meant marriage. He wronged her — 
forced her to evil. . . . He ruined her with all her 

friends — disgraced her. She had to leave her home. 
She had to do the lowest, meanest work. He cast 
her off. She begged of him, implored him to be hon- 
orable — to save her. He — deserted her. She tried to 
die, but she could not. Then she took an oath that 
he should not be happy while she lived. She swore 
that she would follow him and stand between him and 
any other woman. Her real name was — Felicie. She 
made it — Felix* Gray. The man that she loved — is 
here. You know him — ” 

Grace Duval did not move, though a loud noise 
rang in her ears. Something crept up in her throat 
and seemed to choke her for an instant. And then 
again she controlled herself. ^ ‘ Poor child ! Poor 
child !” “She said Avith yearning compassion. 

Felix Gray tried to speak again, but only indistinct 
whispers issued from her lips. Around my neck — a 
locket — 

Grace Duval saw life flicker out ; saw the gray look, 
the stilled features ; the quiet of death. 


FELIX GRAY. 


131 


She folded the hands of Felix Gray. She gently un- 
loosened the collar and lifted the locket of which she 
had been told. There was a picture within. It was 
of a man — the face of Kirke Duval. She took the 
locket from' the chain — for the sake of the dead, lest 
some one else discover. Then she rose from her 
kneeling posture and, half turning, saw the door open 
and her cousin enter. 

She went near to him and held the locket open. 

He glanced at it and turned as pale as the dead. 

Grace Duval spoke slowly then, without a quiver of 
lash or lip. 

^^From this moment,” she said in her clear, com- 
posed voice, ^^from this moment we are strangers!” 
And she swept from the room. 


THE COLONEL’S WIDOW, 


says I, we’ll go up and call on the 
colonel’s widow. She must be pretty well settled by 
this time.” 

The colonel’s widow had taken the top flat and we 
— Jap and I — had the one just underneath. Jap, by 
the way, is all the family I have. Jap is not a very 
extensive specimen of canine loveliness, but Jap is the 
staunchest and most lo^^al of — humanity, I was about 
to say. Never mind. Jap is a good deal more human 
than a great many two-footed animals of my 
acquaintance. Jap is a Japanese pug as to nationality, 
long-haired, black and white and loving. Knows a 
pretty woman when he sees her, will not make friends 
with a hypocrite and has never encountered a police- 
man. 

So I took Jap under my arm and made sure of 
having my latch-key, for it isn’t very pleasant being 
tricked by a spring lock on the door of your own 
apartment, as I have been once or twice, and having 
to go through some lower floor’s kitchen and mount 
the fire-escape to your own back window. Then Jap 
and I climbed the last and highest flight of stairs and 
rang the gong bell of the colonel’s widow’s outer 
door. We had to wait some little time for admission^ 
and as we stood there we could not avoid, honorable 


THE COLONEL^S WIDOW. 


133 


as we always intend to be, Jap and I, overhearing* a 
hasty and fretful conversation that was occurring* 
within. Possibly the colohel’s widow and her 
daughter — for she had a daughter — had forgotten the 
open transom above the door. 

‘^You’ll have to go, Celia,’’ said the widow. I 
can’t get my dress buttoned.” 

I can’t go, mother, my hair is all up and I don’t 
want to take it down.” 

I never saw the like, Celia. You never will do 
anything I ask you. I don’t see who it can be, 
anyway, unless the hall boy with letters.” 

^‘It isn’t time for the postman. Ten to one it’s that 
woman downstairs with the dog — ” 

Oh, that horrid little dried-up old maid ?” 

Now this wasn’t very pleasant, but we couldn’t very 
well retreat, we callers,^ even after hearing such a 
verdict pronounced. Jap looked up at me and winked 
roguishly, as to say : It isn’t your fault, is it, 

dearie, that you’re an old maid ?” 

Besides as the colonel’s Avidow had taken the. 
initiative in the matter of our becoming acquainted, I 
did not feel so bad. Jap and I had boiled her tea 
kettle for her the day she moved in and loaned her our 
best step-ladder, and taken charge of her music box, 
and taken her groceries off the dumb-waiter when she 
couldn’t get her own slide open, and rung our 
messenger call half a dozen times in her interest 
and — 

Just then the door opened and the widow stood 
revealed, smiling and positively delightful. 

Why, my dear Miss Dana ! If I’d only known it 
was you, you shouldn’t have been kept waiting so. 
Come right in. Oh, how is little Jap ? The cunning 
little creature ! Walk right into the parlor. I was 


134 


DROPS OF BLOOi). 


dressing — positively had nothing but a bath robe — 
and Celia, poor girl, has such a headache, she’s just 
tying up her forehead in — in a towel, you know.” 

Jap gave a low grumble of dissent, but he is a very 
mannerly dog, and when I bade him sit quietly at my 
side he obeyed without a murmur; only once in a 
v/hile he would look up and wink at me, as if to say : 

Pardon the vernacular, but do request her mildly to 
‘ come off.’ ” 

I think Jap was always a little prejudiced against 
the lady ever since the day I had first read aloud for 
his consideration from a very neat visiting card, 

Mrs. Colonel Archibald Fortescue.” 

The widow was very tall and equally plump. She 
had a massive figure and a good-sized face, surmount- 
ed by a crown of smoke white hair. But she carried 
herself very gracefully, much more so than Miss Celia, 
a fiery blonde, who was thin and stooped-shouldered. 

The widow had a way of sitting very erect and 
made a great many gestures. She talked with her 
hands as well as her mouth. 

‘^You are just the one I wanted to see,” she said, 
with a glow of manner that presaged an axe to 
grind. 

Wow !” said Jap incredulously, remembering, per- 
haps, what we had heard before we were admitted. 

The dear little creature !” said the widow", How 
knowing he is. Yes, Miss Dana, I was coming down 
to see you, had you not come up. I am very anxious 
to interest you in a little charitable project that is 
quite engrossing us at present. Celia has a class in 
the Chinese mission, you know. By the wa^^^, I hope 
you like the Chinese. They make lovely pupils. 
Well, Celia wants to give her class a picnic excursion 
during the coming week and we thought perhaps you 


THE colonel’s WIDOW. 


135 


would join us. The dear girl has quite set her heart 
on your doing so — and the dog, too, of course.” 

‘^Wow!” said Jap threateningly. If anything 
vexes him it is to be call the dog.” 

But the colonel’s widow smilingly continued’: 

We shall either go up the Hudson or just to the 
park. There are twelve in Celia’s class and we three 
will make fifteen. I think perhaps the park will be 
the better place. Do say you will accompany us.” 

I looked at Jap and he seemed to be laughing quiet- 
ly, so I answered that we would be quite pleased to ga 
along and aid in entertaining Miss Celia’s celestial 
disciples. 

The colonel’s widow tilted her smoke-white crown 
archly on one side and clapped her hands. How very 
charming ! By the way, do you make good cake. Miss 
Dana ? Cake is so much nicer home-made. The ice 
cream and other things easily bought and won’t cost 
so much divided between the three of us. Some nice 
biscuit would be acceptable as well. Could you fur- 
nish two dozen ? Buttered, of course.” 

^^Ahem!” I said. Oh, certainly, certainly; any- 
thing, everything, to be sure.” 

^^How very charming! I told Celia I knew you 
would come to the rescue. ^ That dear little Miss 
Dana,’ I said, know her heart is as large and as 
warm as — as — ’ ” 

As her range oven,” I suggested innocently. 

The widow regarded me for an instant, then laughed 
aloud. 

Oh, you droll thing ! What an idea ! But such a 
relief! And how have you been since we last saw 
you ; well, I hope ?” 

^^I’m never ill,” I said conscientiously. ^^And I 
have some news for you. My nephew Paul is coming 


136 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


to visit me very shortly. Miss Celia spoke of meeting* 
him him last summer at Ashury or Long* Branch or 
somewhere. He’s ver^^ rich and very proud, hut 
never too proud or rich to visit his little dried-up old 
maid of an aunt.” 

The widow looked a trifle flurried for an instant. 

^^-He must be a charming fellow,” she said. Celia 
liked him so much . ” 

Jap stood up and began to yawn, which I always 
take as a signal that he is tired. So I made haste and 
abridged the visit. 

Next morning Miss Celia brought down a list of 
what I must take to the picnic. 

‘^Two dozen biscuit, Jap,” said I. ‘^We mustn’t 
forget. One chocolate cake, one jelly cake, some pre- 
serves. Oh, well, its all right. Paul will be here and 
it may amuse him.” 

Paul, m^^ nephew is just the dearest bo^^ in all the 
world. He’s more than twenty-one, but a boy for all 
that — and such a boy ! I never saw a Paul yet that 
wasn’t handsome^ and grand, and glorious of nature. 
Well, well, I’m a dried-up — I’m Paul’s aunt. 

Paul arrived the day before the picnic and said, 
when I told him of it, that it really would be a jolly 
lark, and he’d like to contribute something. But I 
couldn’t think of anything more. 

Celia Fortescue,” he said, wrinkling his forehead 
and trying to remember. ^‘Oh, yes, I have it. Tall, 
thin, lighthouse, eh. Aunt Polly?” and he began to 
laugh. 

But when we all set out for the park the following 
morning he was demure enough for any one. We 
formed our little procession in solemn silence. Miss 
Celia leading with my nephew and her mother and 


THE colonel’s WIDOW. 


137 


myself bringing up in the rear of the almond eyed 
meek and lowly. 

People regarded us with interest on the street car 
and seemed to understand and smile approval. 

My nephew proved himself of great assistance when 
we had reached the park. It always needs a man to 
arrange and conduct such an affair. The disciples 
ranged themselves in a row on the grass and sang the 
Sweet Bye and Bye ” and kindred melodies, until the 
widow’s eyes were suffused with tears. And when the 
lunch was a thing of the past, she sat talking to me in 
serious undertone, while her daughter and my nephew 
took a stroll to speak of their former meeting at 
Asbury. 

Indeed, the widow, when I came to think of it after- 
wards, was very much concerned about entertaining 
me. She had such countless anecdotes to relate of her 
husband, the colonel. Celia was so like him, such a dear 
lovely nature ! I couldn’t imagine how altered their 
circumstances were since his death. Formerly they 
Iwed in luxury. It was hard to do without things 
now. ‘^You— you can’t imagine,” the lady said, 
hoAv one’s feelings suffer. When I contrast the past 
with the now, it — it hurts me here,” and she made 
little motions as if to chuck herself under the chin and 
below the ribs. ‘^Heartache, you know,” she said. 

Why, my dear Miss Dana, we used to have the rich- 
est and proudest of the land for our associates. There 
was Mrs. General Foster, you, know — ” and the stor}^ 
became, through excessive supplements and ramifica- 
tions, an interminable one. The afternoon had worn 
away and the China boys had even tired of baseball. 
They came sidling up, one by one, with a What shall 
we do with ourselves” expression that finally attract- 
ed the widow’s attention. 


138 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


^‘Dear me!’’ she said, is reallj^ quite late. I 
hadn’t thought it. You are so entertaining, dear Miss 
Dana. Why, where can Celia have gone ? Perhaps I 
had better tell the young men they can go home by 
themselves.” 

I agreed with her and the pupil picnickers received 
the news with brightening countenances. 

Take the ice cream pail and the baskets and dishes 
with you, boys,” said the good lady. ^^Dear me! 
Where can Celia be ? It is so imprudent of her. It is 
nearly seven o’clock. Do you think it is any use wait- 
ing for them, dear Miss Dana?” 

^^No,” I said, perhaps not. , I’m sure Paul is old 
enough to take care of himself,” and as I saw her 
look annoyed, ‘^and of Miss Celia.” 

So we went home. But we did not dine together as 
she suggested. It was long past dark when Paul re- 
turned. 

Great heavens !” he said, ^Hhat girl must be all 
bones. I never knew any one so heavy and yet so 
thin.” 

Paul,” I said severely. 

Why, aunt, she dragged me away off up past the 
reservoir, then she had to stumble and sprain her an- 
kle. Then she had to sit down and be comforted. 
Jove, what a time I had getting her home. I’m as 
hungry as a hawk. But, the poor thing, I suppose 
she did hurt herself awfully. Had to carry her up- 
stairs. Must be all bones.” 

I saved your dinner, my dear,” I said more affec- 
tionately then. I’ll go up presently and see what 
Miss Celia is doing for the sprain. Did she faint ?” 

— no, I don’t think so.” 

I left Paul playing with Jap. And Jap gave me a 


• THE COLONEL^S WIDOW. 139 

wicked wink as I went out and ran lightly upstairs in 
my slippers. 

I didn^t ring the hell at once, for I heard the widow 
and her daughter talking rather excitedly. .. 

You needn’t scold any more, mother !” cried Celia, 

I did all I could, and I don’t care what you say, I’m 
ashamed of myself. I’ll never play such a part again. 
What does he care for me ?” 

Then the widow sharply: ^Wou’re an ungrateful 
creature, and if you never get married I shan’t exert 
myself any more. It was your own suggestion to 
hurt your foot — ” 

I was only in fun,” sobbed Celia. 

‘‘And I only helped you by sitting on the grass 
hour after hour to keep that horrid little old maid 
from wondering where her lovely nephew was — sitting 
there till JI caught my death of cold, that’s all. But 
what do you care. I’ll die and then you’ll get all the 
pension money — ” 

“I don’t care ; you’re always finding fault because 
I don’t get married. I’d like to know if I can go out 
in the street and pick a husband off a lamp-post. 
Once for all, Paul Hart doesn’t care a straw for me, 
nor I for him, and I won’t scheme to marry his 
money — ” 

“Will you hush, then, you good-for-nothing girl? 
I might have known that big-eyed, lazy fop and his 
wizened old aunt with her wretched dog — I’ll throw 
that dog downstairs first time I catch it — ” 

This was quite enough. What she thought of my- 
self I cared not a pin, when she abused Paul it vexed 
me, but when she threatened to injure poor, innocent 
little Jap, I drew the line. 

Softly I crept downstairs again and into my own 
apartment. 


140 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


^^Paul/’ says I, ^^as the novelist remarks, ‘never 
trust a red-haired woman’ — or at least never trust her 
mother. You are not in love with Celia Fortescue, I 
hope ?” 

Paul jumped. 

“ Heaven forbid 

“That’s all right,” I said. And then I gave Jap 
an extra dish of milk^ poor innocent ! 


' LILITH. 

‘‘And round his heart one strangling golden hair !” 

The keen wind, rising ever at the sea inlet and 
sweeping its breezy circuit around through the old 
town and up the sandy, level road, swept with it a 
merry party that August morning, up from the 
railroad station to the summer home of Harold Swain. 
The latter, a youngish man — a widower of six years 
standing, long relapsed into the happy habits of bach- 
elorhood — had come down from the city, bringing with 
him friends to remain one week, or two, or ten, as they 
should please. Not all were of old acquaintance ; only 
his trusted Lester Chappies, who had introduced him 
to the others, all ladies, and specifically, as follows : 
Theodora Wells, a vivacious brunette widow, with a 
tender recollection of ^^poor Jack,” who would go 
shooting in a boat on Sunday in spite of all she could 
say, and so had met his death ; Miss Meigs, the elderly 
chaperone of the set, a little inclined to lace mittens 
and dawdling; and Miss Meigs’ niece, Lilith Francillon. 
Harold Swain had met Miss Francillon but twice be- 
fore this, and as the^^ walked up together from the 
station he said to himself she was the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen. Nevertheless, had any one 
called him aside and asked him to describe her, he 
might have hesitated, uncertain of the hue of those 
changeful eyes, the shifting gleams of sunlight in that 
x*ed-brown hair, the flushes deepening* or paling in 


142 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


that pure, sweet face. Glancing from time to time at 
the lovely profile and loosely twisted hair under her 
seaside bonnet, with its careless droop of sailor-blue 
feathers, its knot of violet velvet, he wondered how 
Lester could prefer the gay banter of the little widow 
and the prim wisdom of the elderly chaperone. But 
Lester, he admitted, was bearish at times in spite of 
his good looks, his fortune, and his excellent connec- 
tions. The fact that Miss Francillon was an heiress 
should not detract from her loveliness. Was she not 
ever modest and deferent ? 

Harold had not kept silence while thinking these 
things. He had spoken of what they should do for 
amusement. 

^^Did you ever catch a bluefish. Miss Francillon ? I 
mean a good-sized one. Because I’ve got the best 
little boat you ever saw. Captain George runs it for 
me. It is the ‘ Mary Ann ’ at present, but I would 
like to change the name, if I thought a young lady 
wouldn’t object to a boat for a namesake.” 

Lilith swung her parasol lightly over her arm, and 
laughed her own musical mezzo. 

I should think any young lady would be delighted 
with the compliment. I’m sure I would.” 

Would you ?’^ he asked seriously. 

And now the others, who had lagged, came hurry- 
ing after, the lively widow entreating Lilith to go 
more slowly and to enjoy the morning. 

^^But I am enjoying it, Theo,” Miss Francillon an- 
swered, earnestly, pausing as she spoke, and lifting 
her gaze to the leafy canopy of the old street. 

Harold Swain remembered ever after how she 
looked, standing there, her red sweet lips parted 
slightly, quick rose tints flashing into those fairest 
cheeks, and golden, varying lights in the wide eyes. 


LILITH I 


143 


They went on presently, up into the cool width of 
the rambling old seaside house, where the cheerful 
housekeeper waited to welcome them. 

We are all here, Martha,” said Harold laughing 
pleasantly. You might let the ladies choose their 
own rooms. They will want those looking seaward. 
Mr. Chappies will have the one you always give him 
and, turning to his friend, Come Lester, we’ll go 
right up.” 

He went into the room with Chappies and shut the 
door. 

You know the ways of the house, Lester,” he said. 

Do as you please come and go as you like. I wish 
you’d insist on the ladies sending for their baggage. 
I don’t want them running away in twenty-four hours ; 
and that’s women all over, if they haven’t all their 
toggery at hand.” 

You’re very good, Harold. I’ll use my influence 
if I have any.” Chappies was plunging his blonde, 
handsome face into a bowl of rain water and mopping 
it, man fashion, with a damask towel. 

How do you like them ?” 

Very much. The little widow is extremely fascina- 
ting, as you, of course, acknowledge ; the aunt is a 
virtue born of a necessity, and Miss Francillon is the 
most beautiful woman I ever — ” He stopped and 
went to the door where Martha was knocking to in- 
quire about lunch. 

Meanwhile, the ladies, having brought no luggage, 
could only wash away the suggestion of coal-smoke, 
indulge in a suspicion of fine powder, and descend to 
the parlor. 

^^Mr. Swain has a taste for art,” said Miss Meigs. 

Lilith, my dear, come and see these engravings.” 

“Yes, presently, aunt,” Miss Francillon was sur- 


144 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


veying- her sailor-blue costume in the narrow length of 
gilt-framed pier-glass. Theodora was interested in 
the life-size portrait of a blonde young lady over the 
piano. 

Lil, come and look at this picture. I suppose it is 
his wife. Dear me ! I wonder if it makes him as sad 
as poor Jack’s makes me ?” 

don’t care to look at dead people/’ Lilith 
answered regardlessly. 

You shock me, dear. Let us go out on the piazza. 
Will you come, Miss Meigs ?” 

think not, thank you. I’m tired enough to stay 
indoors.” Miss Meigs was remarkably easy-going for 
chaperone. There was no need to bother these sensible 
girls of two or three-and-twenty years. She made 
herself comfortable in a wooden rocker, while they 
slipped away through the long window and indulged 
in girlish, gossipy confidences. 

^^It’s a lovely place, Lil. And he is very im- 
pressionable.” 

Lilith laughed. You like him. What can I do to 
help you ?” 

Help me?” 

A bell began to ring loudly. And immediately 
Lester Chappies came out. 

Hungry, girls?” He was not a man of many 
words, but the pleasant accompanying smile sufficed. 
He offered an arm to the little widow, whose Jack” 
had been his second-cousin ; Lilith took the other, and 
they went in to lunch, Mr. Swain escorting Miss Meigs 
to the seat of honor. 

In the afternoon they took their first sail, and, 
though no fish were caught, returned with excellent 
appetites for dinner. Afterward the lively Theo 
played waltz music in the parlor with contemplative 


LILITH ! 


145 


e^^es upon the portrait of the deceased Mrs. Swain. 
Lilith danced a little with Chappies, and also with 
their host, just a swing- or two around the room, while 
Miss Meigs dozed over the engravings, and concluded 
to retire. The young people now took to strolling in 
the verandah, which was built on all sides of the 
house. Miss Francillon walked with Chappies this 
time ; the widow with Harold, wiio found her less 
flighty than he had imagined at first. 

The couples were well apart when Chappies asked, 
gently : 

Will you send for your trunk, Lilith ? I think we 
could enjoy a fortnight here, and Swain is really 
anxious we should.’’ 

She looked up into his face as she answered softly : 

‘Hf you wish to stay I shall be happy here.” 

But I want to consult your wishes, my darling.” 

I would really like to stay, Lester. I will send 
to-morrow, and Theo will do the same.” 

Dear,” said Chappies in a tenderer voice, don’t 
you think it would be well to announce our 
engagement ?” 

Perhaps,” she answered slowly. To-morrow, if 
you wish. But is there need of haste ?” 

No ; only I feel as if I should like the world to 
know that you belong to me.” 

They had turned the corner of the house, and were 
out of sight of the others. 

He leaned his face down to her own. 

^‘Kiss me, Lilith; you love me, don’t you, dar- 
ling?” 

Better than any one else on earth,” she cried 
passionately. 

What made you sob, then, sweetheart?” 

Nothing, dear.” 


146 '^^ 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


They turned hack to the parlor, and found Theo 
singing a duet with Harold Swain, after which the 
little Avidow declared herself sleepy, and carried 
Lilith off to bed. Martha was closing the house, and 
the gentlemen went up-stairs to smoke. 

^^Do you know that I have been decidedly im- 
pressed, Chappies?” 

With our little Theo ?” 

^^No, no; not Mrs. Wells.” 

^^Not Mrs. Wells?” Lester looked up apprehen- 
sively. 

^^Mrs. Wells is a dear little thing, but when Miss 
Francillon is present other women pale. I fancy if 
she is here very long I shall be offering myself. 
I’m more in love with her than I’ve been with any 
woman since my wife died.” 

Chappies had risen from his seat and spoke with 
vehement sarcasm. 

You really would do Miss Francillon that honor? 
I am sure she ought to be delighted to accept a place 
as second best !” He grew still angrier. Perhaps, 
Harold Swain, you fancy any women would jump at 
what there is left you to bestow. But Lilith Francil- 
lon deserves more than a second affection ; a man’s 
first, last, and eternal worship is little enough to offer 
hery 

Chappies,” said his friend, recovering from the 
first surprise, ^‘you are in loA^e with her yourself. 
But how Avas I to knoAv ? You are undemonstrative ; 
you gave no sign. And does she love you?” 

She has promised to be my wife.” 

Harold put out his hand. 

^‘I congratulate you. Forgive my offending; it 
was unintentional.” 

It — it is all right, old felloAV. I am apt to show 


LILITH ! 147 

temper when I shouldn’t. Let’s talk of something 
else.” 

all means. I’ve been floundering about all 
the evening, flnding out odd things. There’s the 
little widow says she knows another friend of mine 
quite intimately, Dick Livesay. You don’t know him. 
Funny felloAv, never stays long in one place. Went 
out West, then to Europe; came back in the Fall. 
Capital company, one of the most fascinating fellows. 
Handsome features, olive complexion, lustrous eyes. 
I’m going to write him in the morning to come at 
once. I’ve told Mrs. Wells I should, and she seems 
pleased. You see. Chappies, I had it firmly flxed in 
my mind that you were in love with little Theo.” 

Lester shrugged his shoulders. 

^^I want a woman’s first affection, and she shall 
have mine.” 

Then Miss Francillon has never loved but you ?” 

^‘Certainly not,” said Chappies vexedly, and short- 
ly after withdrew for the night. Harold shook his 
head ever so slightly when the other had gone. 

Perhaps he is right,” he said. Yet she is very 
beautiful, and she is out of her teens, I think. Such 
girls are beset with lovers from the start.” 

In Theo’s chamber, whose windows faced the starlit 
sea, Lilith sat brushing out her glowing, gold-brown 
hair and talking to her friend. 

I must tell you something,” said Theo; ‘^some- 
thing which has been a secret until now.” 

Lilith’s beautiful eyes turned questioningly upon 
her. 

“ What is it?” she asked. 

“O, Lil, I wish you could see how pretty you 
look!” 

Never mind how I look, but tell your secrets.” 


148 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Well, when I was walking with Mr. Swain to-night, 
he spoke of a friend of his, whom I happen to know 
very well indeed. And Mr. Swain will write him to- 
morrow that I am here and he is to come.” 

It is a lover of yours ?” 

Well ?”— defiantly. 

^ ^ And you are in love with him ?” 

Well ?” stronger than before. 

You are engaged ?” cried Lilith, shaking back her 
golden mane. 

Well ?” decisively. 

Well, Theo, why don’t you go on ? Who is he ?” 

^^He is very handsome and fascinating; he has 
money enough for us — with what Jack left me. I 
love him dearly, quite as much as I did Jack.” 

But his name, Theo ?” 

^^His name is Richard Livesay.” 

Lilith made no answer for a moment; the brush 
had fallen out of her hand, and she was stooping to 
pick it up. 

Richard Livesay ?” she repeated by and by. 

Yes ; what’s the matter, do you know my Dick ?” 

Know your Dick, Theo?” she laughed oddly. I 
think not. Yet I did know a Livesay once — perhaps 
his name was Richard.” 

Did you know him well ?” 

^‘Theo, you are looking jealous. Perhaps I’d 
better tell you my secret ; it will be announced to- 
morrow. I am to marr^" Mr. Chappies.” 

Lilith! I am so glad, dear. I — I hoped so. 
How could you imagine me jealous. I do hope you 
will be very happy.” 

Lilith went on brushing her hair. 

Isn’t your affair something sudden, Theo?” 

Well, yes ; I’ve only known Dick two months, I 


LILITH ! 


149 


met him in Washington, and we soon became engag- 
ed. Nobody knows but you, Lilith.’’ 

‘‘1 thought it strange I hadn’t even heard you 
mention his name.” And with a careless good-night 
she passed to her room, where she stood looking out 
into the starlit night and reasoning with herself. 
What was Richard Livesay to her now, that she must 
feel this pang at the knowledge that he loved another ? 
Could he love another, after having lo^ed her so ? 
Or had he never loved her ? Was she sorry for Theo ? 
No, for Theo was clear-headed and practical. She was 
rather sorry for herself, sorry that she must feel this 
pang. It would not be pleasant to meet him as Theo’s 
lover, yet she had some curiosity to see him once 
more, this man who had been her earliest betrothed, 

I shall only love Lester the more, when they stand 
side by side !” she said. ^^He is so noble, so tender, 
so great-hearted. Nothing could turn me from Lester. 
Of that I am certain.” 

Three days later Livesay arrived. Theo went down 
to meet him, their engagement having been announced, 
as had that of Lilith and Chappies. Coming up the 
path with her lover, the little Widow, in her gray vel- 
vet costume and jockey cap, looked undeniably radiant. 
Lilith at the same moment rose gracefully from the 
piazza hammock, clad in the- palest of blue lawns, with 
delicate laces and satin ribbons, a white woolly shawl 
clinging to her shoulders, a knot of heliotrope upon 
her bosom. Her pale-blue handkerchief, scented with 
the same heliotrope, fluttered to the ground. I be- 
lieve I have met Mr. Livesay before,” she said, quite 
unmoved at the introduction. Then she slipped back 
into the hammock and they entered the house. 

^^He has not forgotten,” she said, with a thrill of 
exultation at his heightened color. 


150 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


Lester Chappies came out and stood smiling* down 
on her. 

^^Mr. Livesay has arrived/^ he said. Theo tells 
me you used to know him.’’ 

longtime ago,” she answered dreamily. Les- 
ter, bending, lifted her handkerchief and held it for a 
moment, as if he could caress any dainty belonging of 
hers. She took it from him then, and laid it under her 
cheek. But still he stood looking down fondly. 

We go sailing to-day,” he said. Your name is 
dry upon the boat. It is the ^ Lilith’ now.” 

She was alone in the parlor that afternoon, waiting 
for the others, when Livesay came in. The deep blue 
of her yachting dress intensified the transparency of 
her complexion. She was first to speak. 

^ Wou didn’t expect to find me here ?” 

^^No,” he said in an uncertain tone. 

^^You would not have come, perhaps?” she went 
on slowly. ^^But I have to congratulate you.” 

Lilith !” 

She shrank from him, continuiug, You will be very 
happy, I hope.” 

Not now, having seen you. Lilith, is it too late ?” 

^^Hush! You are wild! You must not say such 
things. Go quick. There is some one coming !” 

He slipped into the hall, and then — Lester Chappies 
came through the long window, white with horror. 

Lilith,” he said faintly, ‘^Iwas not to blame; I 
was in the piazza ; I heard it all.” He walked un- 
steadily, and covered his eyes, as if the sight of her 
was pain. 

She came and clung to him, crying, remorsefully, 
^ ‘ O, Lester, don’t believe I am not true to you, don’t ! 
I was wrong in not telling you of this — old engage- 
ment ; but it only lasted two months, and I broke it 


LILITH ! 


151 


m^^self . I couldn’t have done that if I’d really loved 
him, could I ? I found it was a mistake, he only fasci- 
nated me ; he was fickle besides. Lester, look at me. 
Only look at me and say you love me still.” 

He opened his arms and drew her to his bosom. 

O, my sweet ! I shall love you till I die ! O, my 
sweet, if I should lose you the world would go out from 
under me. Lilith, must I give you up ?” His despair 
rent her heart. 

no! I have been true; I will be true. Lester, 
it was only pique, jealousy, that an old admirer of 
mine should care for another.” 

But he loves you still, Lilith !” 

‘^No; he will marry Theo. Don’t fear, don’t look 
so distressed, dear. Only forgive me for not having 
told you. Let us go outside, some one is coming.” 

Chappies excused himself from the sail, pleading a 
headache, and Lilith remained with him. The others 
came back to dinner in their usual spirits. 

Your captain seems cautious about the rocks,” 
said Livesay carelessly. 

He ought to be,” Theo exclaimed. Fancy going 

down out there ; what a death !” 

Lilith is shivering,” said her aunt. I’m afraid 
you’ve taken cold, dear.” 

O, no, I think not, aunt.” 

With the following morning came gray, bleak 
weather, scurrying clouds, and white spots out upon 
the sea. 

Lilith,” said her aunt, at noon, you are not well ; 
you have a feverish look. Pray, be careful.” 

I am not ill ; the wind has burnt my face.” 

Chappies came to her an hour or two later, saying : 

^ ‘ Lilith, Harold has a horse he wants to try. He 
has asked me to go along ; do you mind ?” 


153 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Go, by all means.’’ 

There was a restless ring* in her voice. 

I’d rather stay with you.” 

^^No ; please go.” 

‘^Very well.” But he went away too uneasy to 
know where they drove or what was said, or anything 
else, save that something about the carriage broke 
while they were outside the town on a lonely road, 
and delayed their return until 6. 

Chappies found Miss Meigs dawdling in the parlor 
alone. 

Where is Lilith?” he asked anxiously. 

She went out for a walk with Mr. Livesay.” 

Theo went also ?” 

No,” said the auut slowly. Theo was asleep. 
She had a headache.” 

Have they been gone long ?” He was struggling 
with misgivings. 

They went to the station in time to see the 4:30 
train pass to the city. A little diversion, you 
knoY^.” 

Chappies turned and hurried up into his own cham- 
ber, where he sat down by the window to watch for 
them. They had been out two hours ! His very heart 
seemed cold within him. Martha came b^^ and by with 
word from little Theo, asking if he were not alarmed 
lest something had befallen the two. He lit the gas 
before he should go down to speak with her. When 
he had done this something white on the carpet caught 
his eye ; a letter, which must have been slipped under 
the door. He took it up, and knew the writing to be 
Lilith’s. He had to steady himself by the dressing- 
case as he read : 

“I thought it was only jealousy I felt about him, but it is 
more ; it is so much that I will not wrong you by taking your 


LILITH ! 


153 


love. The old feelings, the old fascination, have come upon me. 
I must go away. God bless you and give you one worthier 
than Lilith.” 

He went stag-gering- into his friend’s room. 

Harold knew what it must he ere he took the note. 

We must break it to Theo/’ he said, with a thrill 
of horror at the thought of this suffering for both. 

And Theo was coming in now with Miss Meigs’ arm 
about her. The little woman stood brave behind her 
pallor. 

0, Lilith !” she said, and hid her face in her hands. 
“O, Lilith!” and a moment later she cried out in 
sudden anger : 

Understand, I am not regretting Livesay. I am 
only too glad of the escape. But for Lilith’s sake ; it 
is her money he wants !” And then she began to cry 
softly, and Miss Meigs led her away. 

Chappies turned to his room once more. He uttered 
no cries, gave no sign of anguish, save intense pallor. 
Swain followed him. 

What can I do for you, Lester ?” 

Nothing, only let me be.” 

Harold went down to tell Martha that the ladies 
might need wine or strong coffee perhaps. He 
reproached himself bitterly for having taken Lester 
away that afternoon. He reproached Miss Meigs for 
blindness — poor Miss Meigs, who seemed dazed and 
helpless now. But he could not help admiring Theo’s 
bearing. ^^Dear little woman!’’ he said. She is 
worthy of all devotion.” Then he went upstairs 
again, and passing Chappies’ door could hear hasty, 
irregular footsteps. God pity him !” he said. 

As the night wore on Harold felt painfully his own 
powerlessness to lessen this trouble of his friends. He 
remained up, thinking Chappies might come to him by 


154 


DROPS OF blood. 


and by. At 2 o’clock he lay down without undressing, 
and despite the wildness of the wind fell into a troub- 
led sleep. 

An hour or two had passed when a knock brought 
him to the door to find Chappies, whiter than ever and 
Avild of speech. 

^‘Harold, I am going. I’ve packed my things. 
Please forward as they’re marked. I left written 
word, too — you’ll find it on the table. God bless 
you.” 

He tore away from the detaining hand, and Harold 
could hear the great hall door unbolted and then 
reclosed. 

The train isn’t due for an hour,” Harold said, not- 
ing the time. Then he ran to the window and leaning 
out called loudly, ^‘Lester ! Lester !” 

The wind swept his words away, nor brought re- 
sponse. Was it best to follow at once? Would not 
the walk to the station and the subsequent waiting 
relieve his friend a little ? At all events Lester could 
not go till the train came. Harold waited half an 
hour, and then started to leave the house. He stepped 
into the chamber Lester had left, where the gas was 
flaring wildly and the wind rushing in at the open 
windows. Chappies’ valise stood locked and strapped 
upon a chair. Why had he not taken it ? The written 
Avord, of which he had spoken, lay upon the table. 
Harold slipped it into his pocket and hurried from the 
place. Dawn Avas at hand, cold and gray. But Lester 
was not at the station, nor did he come, though the 
train thundered into the town and out again toward 
the city. Harold thought of the note in his pocket ; 
perhaps it might explain. He opened it now. It was 
brief, but as he read he shiA^ered. 

my God !” he cried and rushed out. He ran 


LILITH ! 


155 


swiftly, not homeward, hut off in the direction of the 
cove, where the sailing* boats were ever moored, and 
whence they had so often set sail toward the far-out, 
treacherous rocks. The boat, his boat, so lately 
named the Lilith,’’ was gone from its moorings, and 
he could only stand there looking forth upon the 
angry waters. 

Presently he turned, knowing he must bear the awful 
tidings to others. And as he flew upon his way, there 
were terrible written words dancing before his eyes in 
letters of Are — the words of Lester Chappies’ message : 

“The earth has gone out from under my feet. The sea must 
receive me. I go forth to my death. I could not live without 
her !” 


THE “CHERRY-PICKER.” 


The officer turned, still holding- the door knob, and 
bowed respectfully to the ladies, one of whom he knew 
to be the daughter of the newly elected Recorder, the 
other her aunt and chaperone. The two were taking 
an early walk, and the elder lady was explaining vari- 
ous sights to her niece, who had but yesterday ar- 
rived from boarding school. 

This,’’ she said, as they paused before a square, 
one-story building, whose door the officer was unlock- 
ing, ^^this was built lately. It is the ^lock-up’ for 
this ward.” 

It is not the prison. Aunt ?” 

O, no ; merely a place to put a drunken man for a 
short time, until the officer can leave his beat to take 
him to the jail proper.” 

Could we look in. Aunt Mary ?” 

The officer was affable ; in a country town even a 
newly elected police justice is a power. Besides, Miss 
Mercer the younger was charming. 

Outstretched upon the floor was the form of a 
woman, her neck bent painfully, her head against the 
baseboard — a little filthier of face and garment than 
the boards beneath her, a little less inanimate. 

What is the matter with her ?” Miss Maud was 
pale and trembling as she stood looking down upon 
the mud-smeared figure. 


THE CHERRY-PICKER.’’ 


157 


Drunk and disorderly/’ said the policeman in an 
ordinary voice. was coming* along the street 

about five this morning, just after I went on duty and 
I heard her screaming away like a hyena. ^ What’s 
the circus ?’ says I, and then when I come closeder, I 
says: ^ O, its only the Cherry-Picker/’ ’ and I lug- 
ged her off. But you’d have liked to seen her carrying- 
on there, at the corner below the railroad crossing.” 
And he grinned good-naturedly at the ladies. 

0, no, no,” cried Maud in shuddering protestation. 

I couldn’t have borne to see it. Is she still intoxi- 
cated ?” 

‘‘Slept it off, mostty. Look here you Cherry; get 
up. Come along I say 1” and he stirred her with his 
foot. 

“ O, please, please don’t,” Maud pleaded. “Let me 
speak to her.” 

“ Maud, my dear,” said her aunt deprecatingly. 

But Miss Maud would have her own way. She bent 
over the prostrate form, and touched it gently with a 
small gloved hand, as gently as she might have 
touched a sleeping infant. 

“Can you get up now ?” she asked. 

The heavy eyes unclosed half way ; the reeking, 
rag-clad shape raised itself slowl^^; the “Cherry- 
Picker” opened her lips and swore most shockingly. 

“ Maud, my dear,” exclaimed her aunt in great 
vexation. “This is no place for you. Come away at 
once.” 

“ Shut up, you Cherry !” the officer commanded at 
the same moment. “You’re a nice one; aint you 
ashamed, you baggage !” 

The Cherry-Picker rubbed her eyes, shook back her 
matted hair, and looked around in a vacant fashion. 
After a little she spoke huskily. 


158 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


‘‘Who touched me ?” 

“It was I/’ said Maud faltering somewhat. Then 
again approaching her, “Can you get up now? Are 
you any better ?” 

Had the roof opened and the party suddenly sailed 
upward into blue space and May sunshine, no greater 
w^onderment could have crept upon the poor creature 
who sat staring up at the visitors in uncomprehend- 
ing silence. 

Presently she turned her bleared eyes upon the offi- 
cer. “What are you going to do with with me?” 
she asked sullenly. 

“ I’m going to have you sent up for six months, if 
I can ; that’s what I’m going to do, and don’t you 
make any mistake about it either ; I’ve had to pick 
you up altogether too often lately.” 

The “ Cherry-Picker ” reflected for a moment. 
“You’d better let me off,” she said dispassionately. 
“ I’m all right now.” 

“O, you are? Well, get up and walk across the 
room without a stagger and I’ll see about it.” 

She sprang to her feet with sudden strength and 
obeyed. 

Maud Mercer could not have walked more steadily 
or with greater dignity then did the outcast, who 
now confronted the officer from the other side of the 
room, with an expression of mingled triumph and 
defiance. 

Maud regarded her pityingly for a moment, then 
turned and spoke softly to him. “ Couldn’t you let 
her go with me ? I’d like to do something for her.” 

“ I wouldn’t dare, Miss.” 

“ O, but come now, please do,” Maud’s coaxing was 
sweetly insistent. 

“ I am sure papa would consent if I asked him. But 


THE CHEER Y-PICKEK.’’ 


159 


I don't want her to go into court. I’d rather take 
her home right off. See how awful she looks.” 

He held out a little longer, then consented. Maud 
went over to the woman who still steadied herself hy 
the wall and glowered at Miss Mercer the elder. 

^^Come,” she said ^ftly. ‘‘The officer says you 
may go with us.” 

“My dear Maud,” the aunt now interposed for the 
first time, “ pray tell me what you intend. I hardly 
understand.” 

The color rose in the fair young face. “I want to 
take her home with me,” Maud replied. “ If you pre- 
fer to go ahead. Aunt Mary — ” 

“ O, no ; not at all. I couldn’t think of leaving you. 
Shall we start ?” 

Maud was certainly mistress of her own actions, 
none of which was to be gainsaid hy a dependent, eld- 
erly relative. But the “Cherry-Picker” suddenly 
vetoed the measure by seating' herself on the floor near 
the one window of the place, her back upright against 
the bare wall. 

“Won’t you come ?” Maud pleaded. 

“I’ll go with you ; I won’t go with anyone else.” 

“ Aunt, would you mind going ahead ?” 

“I will do anything to please you, my dear,” and 
the good lady made her exit with some show of feeling. 
Still the “ Cherry-Picker ” seemed disinclined to rise. 

“Come, come,” said the officer. “ Get up, or I’ll 
help you.” 

A look of harder obstinancy settled in the woman’s 
face, which Maud could not fail to see. She took the 
oJ03.cer aside. “ Do please, let me manage her,” she 
begged. Leave me the key and I’ll send it to you in 
half an hour. As long as you stay here she’ll be 
perverse.” 


160 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


The consequence of this and more of the same sort 
was that Maud had her way and a few moments later 
place and prison to herself. 

The ^‘Cherry-Picker’’ regarded her in curious 
silence. 

“Now,” said Maud, “you will come with me I 
know ; I want so much to be your friend.” 

“ What for ?” asked the other sulkily. 

“ Why because — because you are a woman, and so 
am I. That’s reason enough. It makes me feel bad 
to see you looking so, and I want to help you to 
change.” 

“ What are you going to do with me ?” 

“I’d like to have you come home with me, and get 
a bath, and some good clothes and some breakfast. 
Then we’ll see what else we could do. Don’t you think 
that would be nice ?” 

Maud’s sweet enthusiasm should have stirred a 
stone. “ Don’t you ?” she repeated, persuasively. 

“It’s no good,” said the other slowly. 

“Why not? Wouldn’t your rather have clean 
clothes and be fixed up nicely ?” 

“ They wouldn’t stay clean long.” 

“ They would if you were a little careful not to get in 
the mud.” 

“It’s no good,” insisted the woman, still sitting 
idly on the floor. “I’m too old now.” Then she 
laughed painfully. 

“ How old are you ?” 

From outward appearance one could form no idea. 
She might have been 25, she might have been 40. 

“Eighteen, I guess ; I’ve lost count.” 

“ Eighteen !” cried Maud in amazement and horror. 
“Younger than I! O, how can it be? Tell me, 
haven’t you any parents ?” 


THE CHERRY-PICKER.” 


161 


I dunno.” 

Don’t you know if your mother and father are 
living-?” 

My mother’s dead.” 

And your father?” 

^‘1 never had none.” 

Never had a father,” said Maud compassionately. 

Is your mother long dead ?” 

The Cherry-Picker ” grew apathetic. 

I guess so ; it seems a good while. She didn’t do 
much for me. Then I got fond of ‘ hooze,’ that’s all.” 
She rose to her feet. 

‘‘Well, come now,” said Maud rejoicing inwardly 
at the prospect of success. “We haven’t far to walk, 
and we’ll go along a back street. You can tell me all 
the rest about yourself, when we get you fixed up at 
my house.” 

So the two went out into the sunshine ; one in daint 3 ^ 
dress, fair-faced, light of heart ; the other in smeared 
rags, with gloomy brow and thoughts degraded. The 
one bright as a blessing ; the other dark as a curse. 
The same sunlight fell upon both ; the same May wind 
carressed their faces. 

Miss Mercer locked the door carefully and slipped 
the key into a crack, where it might be seen by the 
officer. And they went upon their way together. 

The “ Cherry-Picker ” was docile enough once the^’^ 
had reached the house. She accepted the bath, the 
clean clothing, the breakfast. As she grew more re- 
spectable in appearance she seemed to soften a little. 

Miss Mercer the elder retired to her apartments. 
Miss Maud reigned absolute. 

“Now, Cherry,” she said, for the unfortunate de- 
clared that she had always been thus called, because 
of her strange fondness for the fruit, now. Cherry, 


162 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


we’ll sit down together, you in that rocking-chair, I 
in this. And you tell me all about yourself as far 
hack as you can remember.” 

Cherry preferred to sit upon the floor, she was more 
accustomed to it ; and there she sat, her arms clasped 
tightly about her knees, her hair combed smoothly 
back from a face whose bleared evidences wmuld hard- 
ly disappear with the seventh repetition of to-daj^’s 
bath. Yet it was not wholl}^ an evil face ; the mouth 
was small, if weak, the contour had once been pleas- 
ing. 

Maud regarded her with interest. 

You say you never had a father,” she suggested. 

He died when you were a baby ?” 

O, Lord !” replied the Cherry-Picker,” I dunno. 
Once, when I was very little, I remember I told some- 
body that I had two daddies, and somebody laughed 
at me, but neither of them was m^^ real father. 
That was when we lived upstairs near the depot. 
They came almost every day.” 

And wasn’t your mother a good woman?” asked 
Maud sorrowfully. 

The ' ^ Cherrj^-Picker looked sidewise at her and re- 
plied with slow reflection. She never stole nothing; 
she whipped me lots of times for stealin’ cherries. 
But I’d a gone on doin’ it if she killed me. I’d got to 
have them.” 

^^Poor Cherry,” said Maud. ^^But go on. Your 
mother’s name was — what ? 

Cherry considered the matter. ^ ‘ Her real name was 
Kate Raven,” she said slowly. 

‘^Kate Raven,” repeated Miss Maud; turning to 
gaze out through the lace-curtained window into the 
yard where the cherry-tree was all abloom in the sun- 
light. Where have i hearii tnat name before? It 


163 


THE ^'CHERRY-PICKER.’’ 

seems like the ^cho of something long past. ' Kate 
Raven.’ Where did I know anyone of that name?” 

The " Cherry-Picker ” was ready at any moment to 
resume her account. 

" She didn’t go by that name here ; everybod^^ 
called her Kal^e Hawley, because one of my daddies 
was named Hawley. Kate Raven was her name be- 
fore-before she came away from Carrytown.” 

" Carry town,” cried Miss Maud. " Why we used 
to live there. That must have been where I heard the 
name.” 

"She was a nurse-girl,” said Cherry immovably. 
" She had to leave her place just before I was born.” 

"Poor girl, poor girl!” cried Maud, "Had she no 
friends?” 

" I dunno.” Cherry was growing dreamy over her 
narrative. "Once I heard her say she was a good, 
honest girl until somebody done her wrong and turned 
her out of the house. She showed me the man’s pic- 
ture, too, lots of times. I guessed it was the man 
where she worked. I guessed she took it without any 
one knowin’. She said it was my real father.” 

" It’s awful !” cried Maud distressfully. " Awful to 
think about.” The tears came crowding into her 
lovely eyes, " Cherry, I want to help you to live a 
good life. I don’t want you to go back to youT old 
associates. I want you to be a good woman. It isn’t 
so hard to be good. Just now, sitting there as you 
sit, talking gently to me, you are good ; good as I am, 
perhaps better. You are not to blame for your moth- 
er ; and it isn’t so hard to be good and I’ll help you.” 

The " Cherry-Picker ” looked at her in mild astonish- 
ment. "What do you want me to do ? I don’t know 
how to do any kind of work.” 

' ' 0, but you can easily learn to sew and do little 


164 


DKOPS OF BLOOD. 


things. You and I can sew together, and knit and 
crochet and embroider. Ihn not going back to school, 
and it will be just as I say about everything here. 
Get up now, and I’ll show you over the house. 
We’ll go into the parlor first and then upstairs to see 
if we can’t find a room for you.” 

The ^^Cherry-Picker” gathered herself up slowly 
and followed as if in a dream. 

Maud went lightly ahead and opened the parlor 
shutters. Isn’t this a nice room? Look, there is 
papa’s portrait over the piano. Isn’t he noble look- 
ing ? And here is another picture of him and one of 
mamma when they were both young.” 

Cherry appeared most interested in the earlier rep- 
resentation of Maud’s surviving parent. 

Is that — a picture of your father — when he — was 
— young?” she asked with slow pauses between the 
words. 

Why, yes, of course. What makes you look so 
strange, Cherry?” what are you staring at?” 

Nothing,” said Cherry moving on. 

They went upstairs now, passing the apartments of 
Maud’s aunt, and entered the young lady’s own 
chamber. God knows what a bower it looked to the 
poor outcast. 

^^This is my room,” said Maud, ^Gsn’t it sweet? 
Now, come this wa^^ — here’s a room that would do for 
you. I must have a bed put up. Come back into my 
room.” 

She sat down on the side of the bed and motioned 
Cherry to sit beside her. You’ll stay and do right, 
won’t you ?” she said. 

^G’d like to,” Cherry spoke very slowly, as if she 
couldn’t quite bring herself to realize any such pros- 
pect, 


165 


THE CHEKRY-PICKER.^^ 

^^You look tired/’ said Maud. ‘‘But you see, 
Cherry, I would like to help 3^011, and I will. Onl}^ I 
want ^’^ou to be perfectly frank with me and make me 
3mur confidante. Tell me all ^mur troubles and let me 
s^unpathize with you. Above all things be perfectl}^ 
honest. Alwa^’^s tell me the truth.” 

“Always tell the truth,” repeated the other vag*ue- 

ly- 

“Yes,” repeated Maud, “always! Never conceal 
anything.” 

There was a light tap on the door. 

“ Maud, 1113^ dear, will 3^11 come into my room for a 
moment?” The serene e3^es of Miss Mercer, senior, 
regarded the couple uncompassionatel3^ Maud was 
anno3"ed. 

“ Sta3" here, Cherr3",” she said, “ I shall return in a 
moment,” and she followed her aunt. 

“Now, my dear,” said the latter, “what is all this 
3mu are about ? Are 3^11 positivel3^ going to keep that 
Aucious creature in the house? How can you tell 
what she may not do ?” 

“Aunt Mar3^,” said Maud, flushed at being called 
to account. “Papa said I could do just as I pleased 
about ever3Thing ; and I mean to. I’]n going to tiy 
and do this poor girl some good.” 

“But, Maud, reflect. She is a horrible character, 
and there are so many poor girls who would appreci- 
ate 3mur kindness and do you credit. Few people 
would be foolish enough to take this creature — ” 

“ That’s just it. Aunt Mai\v. Few would do so, and 
I’m going to be one of the few. There’s no use in 
sa3ung an3Thing more to me ; I’m thoroughly inter- 
ested, and if I choose to spend my pocket money on 
her, whom does it harm ?” And Miss Mercer returned 
to her protege. 


166 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


The ‘^Cherry-Picker’’ had not stirred. Her eyes 
were lowered to the carpet ; her hands locked in her 
lap ; her rig-ht foot moved slowly to and fro ; and all 
in all, she seemed striving- with dull, incapable brain 
to reason something out. 

“Well?” asked Maud brightly. “What are you 
thinking about ?” 

Cherry hesitated, and a look of pain came into her 
face. “ I can’t tell you,” she said with a great effort. 

Maud sat down by her again. “ But why not ? 
You promised to be frank. What worries you so ?” 

Cherry darted a swift side glance at her friend. 
The pain still remained in her face. 

“No, nothing. . . . I’d better go away.” 

“That is foolish,” said Miss Maud. “There is 
nothing you need fear to tell me. Remember that — 
nothing ! Now, what is the trouble ?” And still the 
girl hesitated. Her lips moved several times, without 
a sound. At last she spoke — two simple words, yet 
half inarticulate. 

“ The picture.” 

“ The picture ?” repeated Maud. “ Well, what pic- 
ture and what about it?” 

“ The picture that — you showed me — in the parlor.” 
she spoke painfully. 

“That I showed you in the parlor?” said Maud in 
mild surprise. “Yes, I showed you several, I know ; 
mamma’s and papa’s and — ” 

“ The picture,” broke in the husky monotone of the 
other, “is the same — as the other — same as the pic- 
ture she said was — my father.” 

“I — I don’t understand you,” said Maud wonder- 
ingly. 

“It’s the picture — of the same — man — that she said 
— was my father.” 


THE cherry-picker/^ 


167 


My father’s portrait !” cried Maud. Are you 
crazy ? What do you mean ? How dare you say such 
a wicked thing !” And bursting into tears, Miss 
Mercer sprang away from her. You are a wicked 
girl,” she cried again as she realized the full import 
of Cherry’s words, Wicked and ungrateful !” 

The Cherry-Picker” rose. 

‘‘You said I should tell the truth,” she said slowly. 
“I only did what you told me. You said I must tell 
the truth.” 

“You told a horrible falsehood,” said Maud a little 
more calmly, “ perhaps you thought you were telling 
the truth — ” 

‘ ‘ I didn’t think cried the other with sudden harsh- 
ness. “I know it is the truth. She didn’t lie. 
Don’t you suppose she let me look at the picture lots 
and lots of times ? It was the same man.” 

“ You shall not slander my father,” cried Maud 
turning deathly pale. 

The “ Cherry-Picker” took hold of the door-knob. 

“Your father!” she repeated with fine emphasis. 
She would have passed out at once but she saw Maud 
totter, lean forward, then sink back, half fainting, hys- 
terical. Cherry ran to her side and lifted her to the 
bed. Then she darted out and down the back stair- 
case. 

“Go up quick,” she said to the kitchen-maid. 
“She’s sick, go quick.” She passed out of the house 
and presently down into the street in the direction of 
her old haunts. She was filled with a sickening re- 
morse. 

“What a fool I was to tell her !” she said over and 
over. “ What’s the good anyway ? I’m too old, 
Everybody says, ‘I’ll help you,’ and they all change 
their minds. I wish I hadn’t told her. But she kept 


168 


DROPS OF blood. 


saying I’d got to tell the truth. And it was the truth 
— may God strike me dead !” 

The same officer that had found her the early morn- 
ing of that strange day came upon her the following 
morning *and thrust her again into the lockup. 

Thought 3mu were going to reform/’ he said. 

I’m too old/’ shrieked the Cherry-Picker ” in her 
drunken madness. 

He left her to lie there several hours. Something 
unusual detained him and long before his arrival she 
had regained her senses. 

But a strange despair was upon her — feelings she 
had never known before — remorse and utter hopeless- 
ness. ^‘I’m too old, and ever^ffiody changes their 
minds/’ she muttered. She looked about her; she 
was lying in the same old place, with its one chair, its 
one door, its one window boarded across on the inside 
with slats and shuttered without, making the light 
dim and gastly. 

She sat up after a little and presently rose to her 
feet. Then she went feebly around the room, search- 
ing the rough walls for hook or nail. 

She paused when she reached the window and 
looked up at the slat-boarding. ^^I wish I hadn’t told 
her,” she said almost indistinctly. Then she took up 
the skirt of her dress and tore it with her hands — tore 
a long strip from the skirt which Maud had put upon 
her the day before. 

I wished to God I hadn’t told her !” she muttered 
once more. She drew the chair before the window and 
standing upon it, reached up and seemed to measure 
something with the strip she had torn from her dress, 
something about one of the upper slats it seemed. 

Outside in the sweet May sunshine, there were 
school children playing in their noon-hour of freedom, 


teE CHERRY-PICKER. ’V 169 

and when there came a sudden sound, as of a falling* 
chair, and silence followed, they laughed loudly. 
There’s a drunken man in the lockup,” said one. 

And now the officer came to take away the woman 
he had left sleeping beastlike upon the filth^^ ffoor. 
He was slow to unlock the door ; slow to enter that 
gloomy place. He called her by name twice. Where 
was she ? Then he fell back with a louder cry and one 
of wildest horror. 

Great God ! She has hanged herself !” 


THE “WINE BOTTLE.” 


The trial was at an end, and the wretched culprit 
had been led back to his cell, with the words of doom 
ringing- in his ears : By the neck until you are 

dead ; and may God have mercy on your soul 

The town-folk were satisfied Avith the A^erdict ; it had 
been proven that he had led the poor girl, his confiding 
SAveetheart, out into the Avinter night and left her to 
her death, there, in the storm and ice under the bridge 
upon that country road. He had brought her thither, 
from her city home, to die, lured her aAA^ay from honest 
employment, made use of her earnings, and taken her 
life at the end — so said the prosecuting attorney; aud 
it was meet that vengeance overtake him, swift and 
certain. 

It was May time and he had but a month to liA^e. 

The discharged jurymen filed soleinnh^ doAvn the 
street, admired by all, and by many envied. The}^ 
went on toAvard their favorite eating-house ; for it was 
nearly two o’clock. 

Ainslee, the proprietor, came to the front as the^^ 
entered, a corpulent little man with a good-natured 
expression. He shook hands with the foreman. 

I guess your verdict is pretty generally ap- 
proved,” he said. 

We done our duty best we knew how,” said Ben- 
son, the foreman. 


THE ^^WINE-BOTTLE.’’ 


171 


‘‘That’s right! This way, gentleman,” and he led 
them back into the dining-room proper. 

The twelve men filled comfortably one of the long 
tables half-way down the room. 

Sorry I couldn’t get over to court, myself,” said 
Ainslee, bustling about and setting the waiter girls 
wild with a confusion of orders. “ I did want to hear 
the summing up. I was curious to know what John- 
son could have found to argue for the defense.” 

“Masterly effort,” said Benson. “But it couldn’t 
save the fellow’s neck.” 

“He was dreffully in earnest,” said Stryker from 
the other end of the table. “ When he began to speak, 
he sa^^s, says he, ‘ Gentlemen, I regret that my 
physical condition is not what it ought to be,’ says he, 
‘ in view of the important duty I’ve got to perform. 
But I’ve had no sleep, simply couldn’t sleep, with this 
awful responsibility resting on me,’ says he.” 

“ Masterly effort,” acceded Stark, a lantern-jawed 
individual, filling his bowl of soup with bread 
and eating it with a loud noise. 

“Pretty well broken down, wasn’t he — the prisoner, 
I mean?” asked Ainslee. 

“ Well, yes ; yes, he was. But he’d oughter con- 
sidered that when he murdered the girl.” 

“ That’s so.” Ainslee turned to look through the 
door of the partition, to see who had entered the 
store. “That’s so,” he repeated, as he hastened out 
to meet the new-comer. The latter was an old resident, 
best known to his friends as the “Wine-Bottle.” 
Soberest of the sober, and also a member of a temper- 
ance society, the resemblance was purely external. 
He was tall with sloping shoulders, a long neck, and 
a small head. He walked with very little bodily 
motion. He wore a hat a trifle out of date, and held 


DROPS OP BLOOt). 


Its 

his neck stilfly . He had peculiar staring eyes, not 
wholly inappropriate to an officer of the law. He was 
a town constable. 

How are 3^011, Mr. Hilliker ? asked Ainslee, beam- 
ing up over the show-case of cigars. 

How are joii ?” returned the Wine-Bottle/’ with- 
out an answering beam. Any dinner this late, Ains- 
lee?’’ 

Why, 3"es ; I guess so. The jury’s in there, try- 
ing to make out a meal. Walk right in.” And the 
proprietor fanned the latest arrival through the par- 
tition doors with various encouraging motions of his 
fat hands. 

The ''Wine-Bottle” nodded faintly to the noble 
twelve and took a seat at the next table. There were 
no other guests present. 

" How’d the verdict strike yon, Mr. Hilliker ?” asked 
the foreman. 

" I expect it was correct,” replied that gentleman, 
in a voice quite devoid of enthusiasm. " I expect he 
deserves to hang, poor devil !” 

"He broke down completel^^,” said Stryker, from 
the farther end of the full feast. ' ' Did you see him 
when he was taken back to jail ?” 

"Yes, I saw him,” said the "Wine-Bottle.” . 
" The^^’ve appointed me one of the death-watch.” 

" No,” said the foreman, and took an audible swal- 
low of tea from his saucer. " Is that so ?” 

"Yes; Christman is the other. I expect I’ll have 
to watch nights.” 

B^^ this time the waiter- girls had become absorbed in 
contemplating the constable to the neglect of their 
duties, and the proprietor was obliged to rouse them 
again. 

The "Wine-Bottle,” however, seemed destined to 


173 


THE WINE-BOTTLE.” 

make out a dinner. He swallowed the conclusive 
lemon pie and listened to the remarks of the ex-jury. 

Stryker, a little man with a thin mouth, and chin- 
whiskers, was speaking* : 

As a rule,” he said, ‘‘I am not in favor of capital 
punishment. In this case, however, there seemed but 
one course. It was murder in the first degree, noth- 
ing less.” 

Covell spoke next, a thick-set, florid farmer. 

I don’t care ; I’ve no scruples. Ef a man takes a 
life, let him forfeit his own. Community’s got to be 
protected. String ’em up, I say ; string ’em up !” 

Hilliker went on consuming his pie. 

‘^That’s about my idee,” said Jones, who looked 
consumptive. Only I wish they could find a better 
way, by’n by. This choking people is rather ‘ barbari- 
ous.’” 

The ^‘Wine-Bottle ” put down his knife. They all 
used their knives very freely. Just then Jones ap- 
pealed to him. “ What’s your opinion, Hilliker ?” 

“Nothing. I was only thinking what a good din- 
ner we were having, while that poor w^retch of a Dun- 
can is howling his lungs out in his cell. Can’t exact- 
ly keep my mind oft* it; I’ve got to spend so much 
time with him the next thirt}^ days, you know.” 

“Don’t envy you the job,” said Benson pushing 
back his chair. 

Then the twelve rose en masse and made their way 
out into the front store where they indulged in much 
laughter and discussion as to payment. 

Ainslee remained at the cigar counter until the 
“Wine-Bottle” came out. 

“Don’t look as if you relished the job they’ve set 
you, Mr. Hilliker,” he said. 

“ I don’t particularly. How much ? 25 cents ? Yes, 


174 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


I’ll take a cigar. No, thanks, I won’t light it. I’ll 
take it to that poor wretch of a Duncan.” 

^‘Sure to swing, isn’t he?” 

I expect so. Johnson’s going to work awful hard, 
but I don’t believe he’ll make out anything.” 

The tall, bottle-like ligure went out into the May 
sunlight, and the waiter-girls came curiously forward 
from the dining-room to watch him down the street. 

He’s got to stay with Duncan every night now, 
till he’s hung,” they said with great awe, then stole 
back to their work. 

When Hilliker went on duty that night, he found 
the prisoner moderately calm. He was scarcely’' more 
than a boy ; ignorant, irresponsible. He seemed 
exhausted and fell asleep early. The cell-door was 
unlocked, the light shone in from the corridor. The 
sleeper moaned uneasily. Hilliker was only too glad 
when Christman, his sturdy German relief appeared. 

Past the middle of the third night Duncan sat up, 
and looked at his watcher. He had not removed his 
clothing. He stood upon the floor presently. 

Hilliker turned his strange, staring eyes upon the 
condemned. Duncan sat down again upon the side of 
his vCot. 

Can’t sleep, can you ?” asked Hiliker. 

My God ! No !” 

Do you want anything?” 

No, no ; nothing but death.” He went on after a 
little. ‘‘There’s no hope for me, Johnson can’t do 
anything.” 

“He may,” said Hilliker. “ Best not give up hope 
till the last.” 

Duncan moaned bitter! 

“ I suppose you’re like all the rest ; you think I 
deserve to die,” 


175 


THE ^^WINE-BOTTLE.” 

I’m sorry for you,” said the ^^Wine-Bottle” 
gravely. 

But you wouldn’t believe what I’d say ?” 

Hilliker considered. 

If you want to say anything to me as a friend, 
I’ll believe you.” 

The prisoner drew a sobbing breath and spoke with 
despairing earnestness : 

^‘I never meant to harm her.” 

Hilliker was leaning forward, gazing at the floor. 
He nodded slightly. 

^‘We’d been drinking a good deal,” Duncan con- 
tinued, ^^Mary and I; and we didn’t know what we 
was doing.” 

Well ?” asked Hilliker looking up suddenly. 

Duncan hesitated, then spoke abruptly. 

Do you know Job Hancock ?” 

‘^Know Job Hancock?” repeated the constable 
slowly. Yes, I know him.” 

Lives out on the Montclair road. He was in court ; 
I saw him. He was glad I was in trouble. If they 
hang me he’ll want to be present. , He’s my second- 
cousin.’^ 

No !” said Hilliker with quiet surprise. 

That’s the truth as I stand here. I worked on 
his farm ten years ago.” 

I didn’t know him then. . . . Go on.” 

Duncan sighed and put his hand to his heart, as if 
in great pain. 

He always hated me because I was m3" father’s son. 
My father married his girl away from him. My 
mother was Hancock’s cousin. My father died when 
I was little, and my mother didn’t last long after 
that. When she found she was going to die, she 
wrote to Job Hancock, and, begged him for her sake 


176 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 

to take me. She said she knew I’d he a good boy. 
So I would if he’d treated me like anything human. 
But I could see from the first he hated me. He beat 
me till I got reckless and began to drink and go in 
bad company, I wasn’t fifteen, but he kept telling me 
I was going to the devil, and I didn’t care much if I 
did. The worse I got, the better he seemed to like it. 
Every time he struck me, I swore it was the last. 
Finally I ran away. I stole some money from him for 
railroad fare. I’d never stolen before. But then he’d 
never given me a cent. When I reached the city I 
took the name Duncan, and lived just as I could. It’s 
going on ten years since I worked for him, but he 
knew me in court, and I could see how pleased he 
was. 

Why didn’t you tell this on the stand ?” asked 
Hilliker. It might have helped you.” 

no; it wouldn’t. He’d have only worked the 
harder against me.” 

I’ve known Job Hancock pretty thoroughly these 
half-dozen years, ” said the ^‘Wine-Bottle ” retrospec- 
tively. “And I must say he’s a hard old customer. 
He served me a mean trick about some land one time ; 
I haven’t forgotten it to him, either.” 

“ If they hang me, he’ll be a worse murderer than 
ever I’ve been,” cried Duncan with breathless bitter- 
ness. “For he’ll be to blame for Mary’s dying be- 
sides. O, I swear to God I never wanted to harm the 
girl ! I swear to God I never struck her that night. 
We fell off the bridge together, and she struck on her 
head. We’d come to town that day, and we’d been 
drinking together. When I found she was dead, all I 
could think of was Job Hancock. I knew he’d want 
to make out I killed her. That’s wh}^ I ran away and 
left her lying there, Something kept saying, ‘ hurry. 


THE WINE-BOTTLE.’^ 


177 


hurry !’ And I could see his face following* me as I 
ran. I didn’t know where I was going* till I got on 
hoard the train, and the conductor came ’round.” 

If you’d only not done that,” said Hilliker grave- 
ly. If you’d only stood up and told the truth, how 
much better it would have been !” 

My God ! Don’t I know it now ?” 

The days crept slowly on. The prisoner’s counsel 
worked late and early, but found little encouragement. 
Public sentiment demanded the execution. 

They began to build the gallows. Duncan could 
hear the hammering in his cell. The end was drawing 
nigh. Even so ; though the outer world grew radiant 
in June’s embrace. 

On the last night but one, Hilliker sat as usual in 
the doorway of the cell, Duncan appeared calm. 

It’s only a few hours more,” he said. I wouldn’t 
care, but for the villain who’ll be so glad to see the 
rope ’round my neck. I remember what he often 
used to say to me. ^ O, you’ll dangle in the air, you 
young devil, and I’ll be there to see you !’ ” 

Hilliker shuddered. 

Duncan was lying on the outside of his cot ; his 
white face stared upwards like a dead man’s. And 
there was yet another and more awful night to pass. 
The thought of this was sickening to the watcher. 

Duncan,” he said, I wish to God there was some 
hope.” 

^^Come here,” implored the prisoner. Come and 
sit on the side of my bed, for the last time.” 

Hilliker hesitated. There could be no especial harm 
in this. He presently concluded to do so. 

The white face stared upward; the strange eyes 
looked downward. The two seemed to meet with a 
thrill of sympathy and comprehension. 


178 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


I wouldn’t care,” said the low voice of the prison- 
er. I’m glad enough to die. I’ve nothing to live 
for. I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t for him that drove 
me to the had.” 

‘^Job Hancock,” replied another voice as low as 
the first — the voice of the watcher. ‘^Job Hancock, 
the thief and liar. Well, his time will come.” 

If — I — could cheat him — of the sight — ” said the 
first low voice, with a pleading intensity. ^^If — I — 
could — cheat him — ” 

There was silence then, and both breathed rapidly ; 
but the breathing of the prisoner was loudest and 
most painful. 

Then the ‘‘Wine-Bottle” spoke, hardly above a 
whisper. Bitter, inevitable words : 

“ My dutyJ^ 

“ O, God ! Yes, I know,” said Duncan with a hard 
sob. 

And still the white face stared upward at the 
strange eyes. 

The prisoner presently spoke again : 

“ I heard a man say once there was a medicine that 
stops the heart, and you can’t tell afterwards that it 
was taken.” 

I don’t know anything about medicines,” said the 
“ Wine-Bottle” quietly. He paused and listened for 
a moment, then continued. “ But if there should be 
no hope — no earthly hope — to-morrow night” — he 
stopped abruptly. 

The prisoner seized his arm with a terrible clutch. 
“ Go on,” he cried in a voice of agony. “ Go on !” 

“ I am not strong,” said Hilliker in a slow whisper. 
“ One could knock me down. ... I might have 
a pen-knife in my vest pocket.” 


THE ^^WINE-BOTTLE.” 179 

Then he rose and resumed his seat at the door, and 
neither spoke. 

Dawn came, and with it the misery of another day. 
Johnson, the counsel, had gone in person to the 
Governor, hut without success. The clergyman came 
again and seemed surprised to find the prisoner so 
thoroughly reconciled. Hilliker entered upon watch 
that night with heavy heart. Christman offered to 
share his vigils, hut he hadq him go and sleep. 

Midnight had passed and all was silent as the grave. 
Duncan was lying upon his cot taking his final rest. 

Hilliker turned in his seat, and continued to look in 
the opposite direction, leaning forward slightl}^ to rest 
his head upon his hand. and hy he heard a stir- 
ring, and knew that Duncan was rising. He turned 
his face slightly to the right and glanced over his 
shoulder for one brief second ; then he turned it to its 
former position, and waited. 

Duncan struck him over, and he fell forward without 
a sound. He was dazed for a moment, and so lay 
there, strong in the notion that he had heen stunned. 
But gradually realized it was not so. He was unhurt ; 
he had heen no more than suddenly pushed down and 
held so while his pocket had heen searched. 

What to do next, he wondered. What a pity the 
prisoner had made such halfwa}^ work of it. Poor 
fellow, he had not the heart — hut Hilliker knew he 
must not remain lying there — conscious. All was 
silent now. 

He rose slowly, fearfully. Heavens ! how he dread- 
ed it ! 

Duncan,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He stood 
erect, hut held his hands before his eyes. Duncan.” 

There was no answer. He tiptoed toward the bed. 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


1 80 

Duncan lay as if he had but thrown himself down to 
rest. 

Hiliiker touched him. There was no responsive 
movement. In his hand the open pen-knife showed no 
stain. There was no crimson ebb-tide here. 

Hiliiker leaned doAvn and laid his ear to the heart. 
It beat no more. 

Thank God he cried with sudden fervor. 

He quickty put away the pen-knife. He returned to 
his seat, and allowed a quarter-hour to pass, before 
giving the alarm. 

Christman was first to^ arrive, then the sheriff and 
others. 

Cheated the law, by heaven!” someone cried. 
The Lord have mercy on his soul !” 

^^Amen!” said Hiliiker. 


THE LAST ACT. 


As the door opened and closed again she arose and 
came slowly away from the little window where she 
had knelt to look out upon the city far below.. The 
beautiful city with its silver lighted avenues like blue 
flowered rivers, its half hushed murmur as the storm 
of yet another day subsided. She came slowly, as if 
bewildered by her recollections. Kneeling at the 
window she had remembered that last secret meeting 
of theirs — was it yesterday or 3^ears ago ? When they 
had walked away from the city’s heat and off toward 
the river beyond which soft twilight clothed the purple 
heights. She had remembered how little they had 
found to say, with voices forced to cheerfulness and 
hearts of deep despair. 

have brought you something,” he had said. 

You remember the little Indian gods I found in the 
southwest?” He had held them in his hand — tiny, 
uncouth relics brought from the ruins of some far off 
Mexican village ; and she had glanced at them with a 
vague smile at the incongruity of offering and occasion. 
There had been such misery in her heart that day. 

Such misery and so little to hope for. There had 
been nothing left to do but rail at Fate, accursed 
Fate, which having brought them so near, still held 
them so helplessly apart. 


182 


DROPS OF BLOOi). 


There is nothing- new ?” 

Nothing new, Solace.” 

How he had seemed to love her name ! 

He had told her many a time that it comforted him 
merely to say it over and over softlj^, even in the dark 
shadow of the house he called his home, the house so 
sternly ruled one of the twain who stood between 
him and his happiness. His mother ! Could he have 
loved that mother, whose words rang ever in his ears, 
harsh and inexorable ? 

You know my state of health, Gordon — that I 
may droi3 dead at any moment. You would better 
not excite me. . . . You hold my life in your hands. 
Unless you promise to give up that woman — that 
creature who has a living husband, I shall die. l am 
your mother ; sacrifice me if you will.” 

Could he have loved that mother — that woman who 
would hear no defense or explanation ? 

And so Solace Blair came slowly away from the 
window. 

In the reddish lamplight of her tenement attic she 
moved like a tinted statue, slow of step, immobile 
of feature, speechless. Only her eyes burned darkly 
in wide sockets and her hair was tossed by the keen 
night breeze. Thin, slight, poorly dressed, with 
various other signs of toil and suffering ! 

But as Gordon Barclaj^ advanced to the centre of 
the room, her arms were about his neck, her beautiful 
face uplifted to his own. 

He kissed her blue black hair ; then he turned to 
draw a seat and set her like a child upon his 
knee. 

She looked up wonderingly and questioned with a 
thrilling voice : 

Why do you hold me away from you, Gordon ?” 


THE LAST ACT. 


183 


Away from me ?” His voice was wearier, more 
hopeless than she had ever before known it. . . . 

1 cannot see you when your face is on my shoulder. 
. . . Solace, tell me that you love me. . . . 

There, there — unclasp your arms, for I must look 
into your eyes. And tell me what you were thinking* 
of at the window.” 

She drew one quivering breath, half sob, half sigh, 
and answered patiently : 

I was thinking of the time you brought me the 
little Mexican gods. I was looking at them to-day; 
they reminded me of that meeting. After we had 
parted you ran across the street to overtake me. 
^ Here are the gods,’ you said; ^you forgot to take 
them.’ . . . We did not meet the next day ; your 

mother found out — you remember?” 

‘"^Remember?” he repeated dreamily. ^^0, yes, I 
remember. It is not many months since it all happen- 
ed.” 

She was reaching up to stroke his hair, among 
whose brownness some silver threads were already 
apparent. But he gently put her hands away, look- 
ing wistfully into her eyes the meanwhile. 

Then suddenly she sprang from his knee and stag- 
gered back across the room, with wild words : 

^^Why do you push me away? You do not love 
me !” 

His features contracted. 

Solace !” he cried, with such anguish that she 
hastened to fling herself again on her knees before 
him and sobbed fearlessly : 

Only love me ! We can bear all if we love each 
other. We have each other — let the world go — if only 
we have each other !” 

^^Yes,” he said with weary bitterness. ^^But we 


184 


DROPS. OP BLOOD. 

have such miser^L ... It seems to me if there 
were a just and mighty God ruling over the world w^e 
need not suffer so — you and I, Solace — ^you and I ! 
We need not live on without one ray of hope.’^ 

Don’t say that, Gordon !” she cried out desperate- 
ly. I do hope. One cannot live without hope . . . 
People die ; obstacles are removed. O, I don’t quite 
know what I am saying, but I must hope or fall dowm 
dead.” 

Obstacles are removed,” he repeated vaguely. 
Then he lifted her up and led her across to the win- 
dow, where they might both gaze out over the city 
fast settling to rest. 

But Solace drew back shuddering. 

^‘It makes me dizzy to look down,” she said. ‘^It 
was not so before you came . . . What a terrible 

height. Six stories to the ground. One would never 
escape if fire should come.” 

^ ‘ There would be little chance,” he answered quietly. 

She must have realized that he had never seemed 
quite so hopeless, so resigned. For she was silent 
then, and gazing at the great clock in a neighboring 
tower and saw that it was after ten. 

Come,” she said gently, ‘^you are tired. Lie 
down at least and let me sit beside ^mu.” 

His reluctance could not have escaped her ; she 
must have felt that something now weighed heavily 
upon him. 

You are not w^ell, Gordon ; your eyes are strange. 
They have a look I never saw before.” She bent over 
him with a face yearning as an angel’s might for a 
soul in danger. 

There, love; hush, love.” He strove to reassure 
her. You wanted me to tell you where I had been 
to-day.” 


185 


The last act. 

Solace controlled herself with an effort. 

Yes/’ she answered. Tell me all that you have 
seen or done. I hope there were no more opium dens. 
The danger makes me shudder ; the frightful thought 
of — Gordon, what is the matter?” 

. He spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently. 

‘^No, no, no. Nothing is the matter. I went — I — 
it’s a hard life, a reporter’s. But I must try every- 
thing.” 

Why are you so nervous ?” she persisted. You 
started when I spoke of the opium joint and the dan- 
ger of disease.” 

Don’t speak of it again, Solace. It was a horrible 
experience.” 

But that was weeks ago, and no harm came to 
you, why do you turn your face away ?” 

He put his hand up to shade his eyes. 

‘^You are tired and excitable,” he answered in a 
low voice. And then she knew he had a secret from 
her. 

She left him without a word and recrossed to the 
window. Close upon eleven by the tower clock. 
Close upon eleven ! An awful fear had come into her 
heart. And yet she found herself saying over and 
ower in a stony way : 

The worst is death, and death is nothing terrible. 
The worst — perhaps the best.” 

To pass beyond the power of the cruel world — 
beyond the power of the woman who had disinherited, 
disgraced, destroyed her own son because of his loyal- 
ty to the woman he loved. Beyond the power of the 
man who had made her own life such utter misery, 
the husband whose cruelty no law might gainsay. 

The worst is death ; and death is nothing terri- 
ble !” 


186 


DROPS OP BLOOD. 


How calm the silver-lighted city ; how peaceful the 
sky ! 

‘^Dear/’ she said, by and by, speaking across the 
room to the man she loved. The wind had blown a 
certain calmness into her brain and senses. She could 
see and hear never so distinctly. Line by line she 
read his worn countenance — thread by thread his 
hair, bronze-brown and softly curling. ‘^Dear, you 
said you would speak to a doctor about — about that 
white spot upon your cheek. It has not disappeared, 
you know. Have you done so 
Yes,’^ he answered simply. 

And he said 
It WRS nothing.’’ 

The tower clock rang the hour of eleven. 

I am very glad,” said Solace in a quiet voice. But 
what spasm had seized her throat immediately she 
had spoken ? 

She turned again and remained looking out over the 
city for some length of time. 

When she returned to his side he had fallen asleep. 
She stood looking at him awhile ; then she knelt down 
with her face close to his own, and gently kissed his 
hair and brow and — the white spot upon his cheek. 

This awakened him. He sat upright and thrust her 
from him. 

''Solace! O, my God! What have you done? 
What have you done ?” 

She started back with exulting, hysterical laughter. 

' ' Did you think to deceive me ? . . . Did you 

think 3mu could have an^^thing — good or evil — blessing 
or curse that I would not share? . . . Say no 

more ! Come life or death, I must bear all that is your 
portion !” 

"Solace,” he said in a rapid breathless way, " come 


THE LAST ACT. 


18 t 

and sit close to me. At least understand now why 
I tried to put you from me. I would have saved 3^ou 
at any sacrifice. It was enough for me to he cursed 
and die ; but you — ^0, Solace, my darling !” ^ 

cannot understand such thoughts/’ she an- 
swered. Do you fancy I could live if you were gone ? 
Have you so little knowledge of me ? One cannot ex- 
ist without hope or motive. I live only because of 3^ou. 
The same harm that comes to you must also come to 
me. . . . Well, the very worst is death, and death 

is nothing terrible.” 

You are right,” he said slowly, death is nothing 
terrible. And if the worst come we can die to- 
gether.” 

^‘Together, dearest.” 

^‘Solace, do you believe there is a God?” 

O, yes — yes ; surely there must be a Power that 
will set all things right by and by ; there must be 
something waiting us beyond all this trouble.” Her 
voice had a sobbing, weary quality. 

don’t know,” he went on sternty. can’t rec- 
oncile such a belief with the misery that has been put 
upon us. Our sufferings can do good to no one. No 
one can be benefited by them. They have not made 
us stronger or purer or better ; they have dragged us 
down to degradation, to the knowledge of hatred and 
revenge and curses. At times there is even murder 
in my heart. That is what suffering has done for us. 
If there were in truth a great and merciful God, and 
not a mere idea like those Mexican idols of yours, 
would He have kept us apart until it was too late ? 
Wouldn’t we have been brought together three, four 
years sooner — while you were free ? Would my moth- 
er have been turned into a stony-hearted fiend — to 
ruin me ?” 


188 


DROPS OF BLOOD. 


Her head drooped on his shoulder; there was an 
exhausted look on her thin face. 

‘‘1 cannot tell/’ she answered, in a whisper. 
cannot tell. I only know I love you, and I can he con- 
tent if only we have each other. I will w^ork hard, 
constantly, no matter how or where, if only w^e are 
not separated.” 

My love !” he said tenderly. My faithful love !” 

He took her to his bosom then, and all bitterness 
seemed to pass from him at the touch of her pure, 
sweet, passionless body. All the bitterness of the 
doom that had been pronounced upon him that day 
seemed instantly to fade away. Her great and beau- 
tiful love was ever about him, come Avhat mig*ht, death 
sharp and sudden, or ling-ering, loathsome death. 

Her arms w^ere soft about his neck ; her breath Avas 
sweet upon his lips. Clasped in each other’s arms, 
they rested in silence. And by and by they even 
slumbered. 

Solace w^as first to waken. She g*asped for breath. 
She could not see the lamp upon the table. The room 
seemed filled with thick and purplish dust, or was it 
smoke ? 

^‘Gordon! Gordon!” she cried, shaking him vio- 
lentl^L Gordon, the building is afire !” 

Once aroused, he w^as perfectly collected. ^^We 
haven’t a moment to lose,” he said, taking firm hold 
of her hand. But as he opened the door a choking 
gust of heat and smoke came rushing in. He closed 
it sharply. 

Solace looked in his face with hopeless eyes. 

We are lost,” she said. 

We must get upon the roof, the stairs are blaz- 
ing,” he answered, and hastened to w^et cloths for 
their faces. 


THE LAST ACT. 


189 


He opened the door a second time, but they were 
driven back as before. 

It is useless/’ she said. The window is our only 
chance.” 

The window ! Six stories to the ground, where the 
noise of the engines and the hoarse shouts of the crowd 
made din too vast for any crj^ to pierce. Could help 
come to those two, into whose white faces death was 
already peering, a lurid, savage, terrible demon ? 

They pressed closer and stood calmly with arms 
clasped about each other. 

At least we are together,” the man said hoarsely. 

It is the last act ; the wretched tragedy of life is at 
an end ; but we are together.” 

Thank heaven for that !” said Solace Blair. 

And now the people saw them from below, for the 
flames had burst into the room. The red glare show- 
ed the white faces of the twain — the woman’s dark 
hair down-streaming, the eyes of deathless love she 
lifted to the man for whom and at whose side she 
would die. Just for a moment the red light trans- 
figured and sanctified them, standing there wrapped 
in one last fond embrace. Then there came the crash 
of falling walls. The people in the street could see 
no more, for all was swallowed up in one broad sheet 
of flame. 

Solace came to me in a dream last night — to me 
who had known her in her happy childhood. She 
came pure and luminous-eyed, to tell me of the peace 
to which they two had passed and wherein they had 
been made as one, through love, mighty and ever- 
enduring . — The End, 

OUT OF THE MIRE, 

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their children. Every thinking man and woman should study this work. Any 
person desiring to know- more about the book before purchasing it, may send to ua 
tor our 16-page descriptive circular, giving full and complete table of contents, 
it will be sent free by mail to any address. The following is the table of con- 
tents. 

Marriage and its advantages; Age at which to marry; The Law of choice; Love 
Analyzed; Qualities the Man Should Avoid in Choosing; Qualities the Woman 
Should Avoid in Choosing; The Anatomy and Physiology of Generation in Wo- 
men; The Anatomy and Physiology of Generation in Man; Amativeness — its 
Use and Abuse; The Prevention of Conception; The Law of Continence; Children 
— Their Desirability; The Law of Genius; The Conception of a New Life; The 
Physiology of Inter-Uterine Growth; Period of Gestative Infiuence; Pregnancy: 
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$4.00. Sent by mail, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price. 

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am prepared to give it my very cordial approval. It deserves to be in every family, 
and read and pondered, as closely relating to the liighest moral and physical w^elL 

being of all its members The essential remedy for these 

great evils is to be found in Dr. Cowan's work; therefore, may it be circulated far 
and wide.” William Lloyd Garrison. 

“ As it is easier to generate a race of healthy men and women than to regenerate 
the diseased and discordant humanity we now have, I heartily recommend the study 
of THE SCIENCE OF A NEW LIFE to every father and mother in the land.” 

Elizabeth Cady Stanton. 

“It seems to us to be one of the wisest, and purest, and most helpful of those 
Books which have been written in recent years, with the intention of teaching 
Men and Women the Truths about their Bodies, which are of peculiar importance 

to the morals of Society No one can begin to imagine the misery that 

has come upon the human family solely through ignorance upon this subject.” 

The Christian Union. 

If, after reading the above, you wish to get a copy of the book, send us the 
money by Post-oflice order or registered letter, and we will send it by return mail. 

Agents wanted to whom we otfer liberal terms. Send to us at once for our 
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